Raindrop Pendants
by Em and Oph
Summary: Diablo III: Man, girl, healer, killer. She sees the world through optimistic eyes despite the coming storm. He fights the storm to escape the tempest raging on his heels. In a world stained by the tears of loss, what does fate and chance bring? :: Chapter 18: In which Lear, Anarei and Chryse assembled for their paths ahead, while Strahan found himself in an awkward assembly. ::
1. Prologue: The Metal Worker

**Prologue**

**The Metal-Worker**

* * *

Turning, turning, turning.

The sound of the water wheel as its paddles splashed through the running river, turning, turning, over and over.

The sound of the bits of metal scraps being tumbled in the barrel, turning, turning, over and over.

The sound of birds returning to their nests, of horses returning to their stables, of children returning to their homes, as the heavens turned dark, the constellations rose from the horizon, the skies turning, turning, over and over.

_Snip_.

The aged silver shears in her roughened hand were rusted over with use and time, though sufficient for her task. _Snip,_ _snip_, and strips of thin black leather fell upon the wooden table separating her from the window. From where she stood, she could only just see the fast-fading remnants of twilight as it descended into the western horizon. Dark skies turning darker. Soon, it would be night.

Shears were abandoned in favour of matches. The candle at her side was half-burnt, but it would suffice for now. A brief hiss, a gentle, but warm flickering - and then there was light.

_How many more are needed?_

She glanced over the mound of carelessly-strewn strips. A quick estimation revealed that there were enough to thread the hundred or so pieces of tumbling scraps. The pieces that, even then, continued to spin in their seemingly endless cycle.

Forged from scraps of soldiers' blades. Pieces of the defence that were unwanted, left behind - yet in their spinning cycle, would come to acquire meaning.

She disengaged the gears that had kept the barrel turning since the previous night, and checked on her new batch of metallic droplets. Satisfied with their shapes, sizes and the smoothness of their surfaces, she began to bore tiny holes into their pointed ends with a sharp hand tool, the veins on the backs of her hands bulging with the resistance in the relatively soft metal.

This piece was soft. Probably not from a sword, then. Perhaps a piece of light armour.

The tool pierced the metal droplet. She withdrew the tool, blew through the hole to clear it, then threaded a strip of leather through it, knotting the ends. One down. About a hundred to go. She considered the end of her week after the following day; maybe she could afford to be lazier tonight.

The simple pendant gleamed as she turned it in her hand, catching the amber candlelight. So warm, yet it would be cold by the time it reached the one for whom it was made. And he, or she - a father, a mother, a husband, a wife, a brother, a sister, a son, or a daughter, would clutch it and weep as they remember their loss, remember the one they loved, as cold as the pendant in their hands.

_Raindrops_, she reminded herself. Chastising herself for already thinking such morbid thoughts, when she had only finish one pendant. _They're raindrops, not teardrops. _

As raindrops fell to the earth and returned to their roots, so did warriors fall and return to the earth. Twenty years ago, there was a storm. These raindrops fell all over Sanctuary, tears shed for the blood of heroes, which was spilt to water this land - a land burnt and parched by the fires of hell, stained by smoke, corroded by sulphur - and returned to it life, joy, and hope.

_But now, another storm is coming. _

_And sometimes, surely even the heavens must weep. _

* * *

******Authors' Notes:**

**Em: **Okay, I feel inclined to point out that Oph wrote most of this chapter. Sneaky little person, writing while I'm out making dinner.

**Oph: **I had fun. And let ME point out, then, that we HAVE divvied up the jobs pretty well, if I may say so myself. She wrote the fic-description.

**Em:** Fair point. Many of you may wonder why we named the fic 'Raindrop Pendants'. If you think it sucks, we'll point out that we came up with it in the middle of the night. If you think it's great, however, we'll tell you we came up with it to match the acronym for the words 'role-play', because that, really, is what this fic came from.

**Oph: **This baby didn't even have a name until we're, what, three, four years into our 'RP'?

**Em:** Well, now it does! We should also warn you guys - if any of you had been, or are currently reading our Diablo II fics, Oph's _Bowslingers_ and my _Footsteps of Glory_-

**Oph: **Gosh I hate that title.

**Em: **I hate it too. Mine, that is. BUT, the point remains that if any of you are reading those, beware. There be spoilers ahead in Raindrop Pendants. You have been warned!

**Oph: **Don't think the spoilers are any obvious ones, and even if they are, they're not popping up any time soon, but best to cover our asses early on. Speaking of ass-covering, here's our disclaimer: WE DO NOT OWN THE DIABLO SERIES. BLIZZARD DOES. However, we do own our brains, and unless you're a zombie, you shouldn't go around eating brains.

**Em:** Here she goes again, with those zombies... anyhow! We hope you've enjoyed this peep into our magical fantastical whimsical fic! Do check back for an update, and remember to drop us a review!


	2. Chapter 1: Strangers and Secrets

**Chapter 1**

**Strangers and Secrets**

* * *

It was a chilly morning. The mists from the night before had not yet begun to clear the lands. Dew hung heavily upon the leaves on the trees, dripping from rafters and rooftops into puddles caused by the brief rainfall of the night before. It was always cold in New Tristram, after all - always wet.

The lanterns swayed gently in the easy breeze from where they hung by cottage doors, the last of the lights dying slowly even as the sun began to rise. Red upon a blanket of yellow, blue, grey and white. The town was awakening, but it seemed none had slept at all.

There was a fire in the back room of the inn, blazing bright as always to keep guests in ample supply of hot water. Scullery maids dashed to and from the adjoining kitchens, baskets of breads and various breakfast items - butter, lard, conserves, toasted oats, fresh fruits, cream and cheese - bourne within the trays in their hands. She paused, stepped aside as a young girl dashed past, then reached to steal a fresh bun from the dining hall-bound tray. It warmed her hands.

Smiling, she made for her post. Today, she would be expected to wash.

She popped the bun whole into her mouth, clenching the soft wheat bread between her teeth as she began to roll her sleeves up. The apron followed, tied firmly about her full waist. It was not until she had swallowed the first bite of her breakfast and washed it down with sweet goats' milk that she saw the sea of red.

"You don't want to know."

She glanced up, jumping a touch as she clutched her half-eaten bun to her throat. "What happened?"

Eudia shrugged a bony shoulder. Her straggly blonde hair fell loosely to her shoulders, tangled and unkempt. Like so many others, she had obviously not slept a wink. "The northerners brought a friend. Little miss has been dashing up and down the stairs all night with these - and each one is worse."

She looked over the two baskets, at entire bed-sheets covered in red - and some bits of other colours, though she got the distinct feeling that Eudia was right, and she really _could_ do without the knowledge.

She turned around, scoffed down the bun in three large mouthfuls, washed it down with the milk. Then she moved onto preparing the soap; the smell - generic, ordinary, almost gaudy in its fragrance - calmed her. Taking the topmost sheet off the basket, she began to scrub, trying her best to ignore the way the bubbles turned into shades of rusted-pink and dirty-yellow.

"So, northerners, Eudia?" She raised a hand, and brushed a stray strand of her hair out of her eyes with the back of it. "The little miss and her guardians? Does it have anything to do with the quake earlier in the day?"

Eudia made a face. "Apparently, yes. Milord and milady have been working all night, it seems. Their lantern never went out and the maids said they sent for hot water through the night. You'd think they were birthing a baby in there." She paused, then sighed, lifting one hand to scratch at the tip of her pointed nose. "Only..."

"Only what?" She tried to recall if there were any woman screaming during the night, but she only remembered moaning, and not of the same kind. She pushed the thought from her head.

"Only, their friend was _male_." Eudia pursed her lips for a moment, then shrugged again. "Either way, it's anybody's guess what was going on in that bloody room."

She felt the corners of her lips turning downward into a disgusted scowl as a large piece of clotted blood drifted through the water to stick onto her hand. She shook it away sharply, swallowed and refocused on her work. "They couldn't afford to send for a healer?" The image of a mangled body materialised in her head, but she recanted as she felt her breakfast churning in her stomach, "Nevermind. Don't think I even want to _guess_."

Eudia let out a loud, hearty chuckle. The sound was ill-suited to her willowy, ladylike frame - but like so many others of the land, she was no noble. "They _are_ the healers. But get washing. If more comes, we'll have no room, and it's best we get this done before it rains again."

New Tristram was a dark and dangerous place, and she would suppress her curiosity if she were to keep living in this precarious, superficial peace.

* * *

She'd lost a slipper. The wet leaves scratched at the sole of her foot as she tore through the woods, seeking out the stray that had stolen it from under her chair. The ground was muddy from rain, slippery. Thorns and brambles thrashed against her skin as she pushed past them, but she cared little. It felt good to be out in the open.

Deeper and deeper into the woods she ran. There was little to guide her, save for brief flashes of a muddy grey tail; a sign of her quarry, a stray cat from the village. For a moment or two, she considered turning around - after all, it was _just _a slipper.

She never saw the earthquake coming.

The earth rumbled and shook beneath her feet, loose branches shaking themselves free of their treetops. Pebbles and stones shifted upon the ground, and all at once, the birds and beasts began to cry. They echoed and whispered at the same time, a cacophony of screeching animals and cracking earth.

She sat up with a gasp. Blinked at the sight before her eyes: a taller teenage girl who peered at her with one quizzical, reddish-brown brow raised. Her sister.

"Go back to sleep, Izzy." Her voice was wearied. Had she not slept the entire night?

"-'m okay," Isobel grunted, lifting one hand to rub at her eyes. "Is _he _okay?"

The older girl managed something of a smile. Her hands were stretched back, brusquely knotting her thick mop of curls into a bun. From where she sat, Isobel thought she could see remnants of blood still caking her sister's fingernails. "Don't worry. Your champion's going to live. You can go see him if you want, but try not to wake him." She made a long, tired sound - rather like that of a strangled cat. "Strahan gave him a tonic, but he was putting up a fight."

"What happened to him, Rei?" Isobel frowned. So much for sleep. Where she had gotten at least four hours, it would appear Anarei and Strahan had had none.

"You can ask him when he gets up." Anarei crooked a light smile before disappearing into the bath-chamber. Her voice echoed. "Between finding him hanging onto you over that ledge and trying to calm him down long enough to actually help him, we didn't manage to become best friends."

Her sister. Ever the jester. Isobel found herself laughing heartily at the remark, then looked towards the window, where the mid-morning sunlight coated wood and bounced off glass. A quiet rumbling within her belly told her it was past breakfast.

Suddenly completely devoid of a desire to sleep, she hopped off her bed. The unpolished wooden floors were rough and cold beneath her feet. She had not found that slipper after all.

"I'm going to go see him." She declared. Anarei's only response was a grunt.

The corridor was dimly lit and deathly silent. It wasn't until she'd made her way to the door beside Strahan's that she realised she'd forgotten to find a new pair of shoes. She let out a giggle, glancing down at her toes even as she wriggled them briefly. Shoes would have to wait.

She took a deep breath, then pushed the door open and stepped in gingerly.

The smell of soap was thick in the air, but it failed to mask the metallic undertones - raw and dirty.

_Like the smell of the chopping block back at home. No matter how many times it's been washed, it still smells that little bit... off. _

Despite how immaculate the room was, it was gloomy - too gloomy, for this time of the day, and surely too gloomy to be good for anyone in need of quality rest. The curtains were drawn shut, and by the stillness of the air, she assumed the windows to be closed.

Everything was so still, so dark, so quiet, that for a moment, she wondered if the occupant of the room was dead. With a surge of panic, she dashed up to the bed, careful to maintain soft footfalls, and let out a sigh of relief as she saw his eyelids quivering.

His eyelashes were a funny colour, like his hair - grey, like steel, quite unlike the silver worn by old men. Isobel giggled softly; Anarei had thought he was an old man when she first saw him.

_His face is young, though. He doesn't look much older than Strahan. _

There was a knot in his messy hair that had coiled a few strands into a loop. Isobel hesitated, decided to ignore it, failed to ignore it, and reached out tentatively to undo the knot, smoothing it out. His hair was soft between her fingers.

He didn't stir. She wondered when he would wake up, but then remembered the glimpses she'd caught of the bloody gashes on his body. It was probably a good thing he was asleep.

Isobel sighed, then lowered herself onto the chair beside the bed with a soft thump. "You, mister. Where did you come from?" She mused quietly. For a moment or two, she wondered if it were rude to watch him as he slept. She could imagine her da's voice - warm, with just a tinge of amusement, as he'd surely chuckle.

_It's not rude if he doesn't know you're here._

She smiled. Wondered for a brief minute how her da and mam were in the cold north. Prayed to the gods for their safety and allowed herself a second to miss them.

And then her stomach grumbled, and she decided she would watch him later. Perhaps he'd be awake then.

_And then I can thank him for helping me out there._

* * *

_Not again._

He knew he was dreaming. He knew because what he was seeing didn't make sense in precisely the way things don't make sense in dreams. Yet it felt so real nevertheless, the way dreams just _do_.

He peered over the edge of the new cliff, the old one having slid off the slope, at the figure hanging off his hand -

Bowels were in turn hanging out of the figure's abdomen, dangling and swinging in the air, in a wider arc than the one that the limp legs were tracing in the air. To, and fro, to, and fro...

Suddenly, the weight seemed to lessen, just that much. He trailed his eyes up, and realised the figure was headless. The head echoed as it bounced off the walls of the deep chasm.

He tried to let go, but the figure dragged him over the edge, and he fell -

He woke. Woke up to another head - not disembodied, he noted with relief. For a split second he wondered if he'd died, but then the deep blue eyes of the head blinked, brightened.

And suddenly, a shrill voice of alarm sounded in his head. The rest of his senses leapt into action as his body followed the sound and started to shriek with pain.

"Calm down!" The owner of the eyes yelped. Small hands reached to weigh his chest down, fought to keep him from thrashing. "Calm down, mister!"

In the back of his mind, he recalled a childhood incident concerning a dare and a pepper of intense heat. He'd wanted water then; he wanted water now, considering how much his body seemed to be burning inside. His legs kicked weakly, though he could not muster up the strength to do much otherwise.

And so he stared, stared right back into those blue eyes. _Pathetic_, his mind admonished, but then went on to show him the colour of the girl - yellow, like the delicate petals of wildflowers. So much like _hers_. Her gold.

_Good. You're not Mister Scarlet nor Miss Peridot. You won't cut me. _

She smiled - beamed, as he appeared to calm. Her elbows came to rest upon his bed as she hunched over, her voice bright. "You're awake! We were so worried about you, we thought you wouldn't make it." An edge of worry crept into her voice, though she shook her head, pin-straight black hair flying loose as she did. Evidently whatever worry had plagued her before had dissolved. "I'm glad you're alive, mister."

Alive. He wasn't sure he was too excited about that. But judging by the way his senses functioned - the way his eyes burned, his ears rang, his head pounded; the way he could almost choke on the smell of soap, herbs and old blood, and the way he could start to feel where that pain was coming from, he could confidently conclude that he was definitely _not_ dead.

"What did you say?" She leaned over, cocking her head gently towards him as if to catch the faint rasps that had escaped his mouth. He hadn't said anything. Or had he thought aloud? He must be confused and deluded, which did not sound like a very attractive prospect. "I can't hear you. Do you need water?"

...But water would be nice. Water would be _very_ nice.

She reached over his head. Perhaps there was a table there, beyond his sight - likely, since she returned almost immediately after, a small, wooden mug grasped within her small fingers. "Drink?"

_Poison._

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to turn away, remembering the way his teacher - his master - laid there, and then had to stop himself from remembering. He focused on the searing pain in his side, and his mind cleared a little.

_Just make up your mind already. Do you want to die or not?_

He didn't know.

_Coward._

He ignored the irritating voice in his head and opened his eyes, returning them to the blue-eyed girl. She had begun to frown, her youngster's face uncommonly touched by anxiety. Anxiety for his sake. She held the mug out further, her voice softening as she urged him yet again. "Drink, _please?_"

The yellow warmed. So similar to the gold - the gold that would never hurt him, the gold that must surely be waiting for him back home; though he imagined she would urge him with greater force.

_Lady Chryse..._

Instincts won out, and he grabbed a hold of the mug with his right hand - his left arm wouldn't budge when he tried to move it - and took a tentative sip. Before he knew it, the mug was empty, and his abdomen was aching from his having craned his head up to drink.

Strength drained out of him, and he fell back into his pillow. The mug rolled out of his hand. The young girl caught it with a faint yelp, not unlike a pouncing cat. "Goodness." She blinked, as if to free her lashes of her hair. Half a moment later, she brushed them away impatiently, then set the mug aside and hunched over him once more, her voice warming. "I haven't thanked you yet, mister, for helping me out."

_How awkward_. His mind jeered. An odd mix of emotions welled up within him, and after a moment of examination, he identified guilt, embarrassment, confusion and shame. He settled with a grunt in response.

She beamed at him again. Up close, she looked no older than thirteen or fourteen, bearing a bright demeanour that suggested a life of ease and carefree days. If anything, she certainly _felt _warmer than the other two. She reached out, unreserved as she placed a warm, soft hand upon his forehead. "Feel better?"

He tried to recoil, to pull away from that invasive hand, only to realise that either the mattress was harder, or he was weaker than he had expected. He found himself to be frustrated - by the situation, by the question, by the pain in his body, and by this stupid mattress. He would blame it on the mattress, yes.

Nevertheless, he answered her honestly. "I'm not entirely sure."

Her smile took on a sad sort of quality, if only for a brief moment. The hand upon his forehead thumbed the skin there gently, before its master withdrew it. She lowered her voice. "You'll feel better after a while. Rei and Strahan are _very _good at what they do, and you'll be back on your feet before long, hm?" She paused for a moment. "Oh! How rude - I'm Isobel. Izzy, for short."

Oh. _There_ was one of the previously-unidentified emotions: _fear_. He felt himself choke, and his voice came out much too dark and desperate for his liking. "I _need_ to be back on my feet soon." He cleared his throat, and managed a milder tone. "I _have_ to be, Miss Isobel. How long?"

She blinked, either considering his question, or pondering his response in general. When she responded, she did so slowly, as if mulling her own words through. "I'm not sure, really. You can ask Rei if you want?" Another pause; then she chuckled, the sound helpless and just a little bit sad. "Or I can, since you'll likely be unable to get out of bed."

He snarled. He knew she wasn't trying to make fun of him... or was she? Either way, it made him angry, and he could feel the tensing of the muscles of his arms and torso, and consequently, the rigidity of the bandages wound around his abdomen.

This situation was _not_ what he had expected. Things could have turned out worse, but this was still far from ideal.

He sighed. It couldn't be helped. "Let me lay low for a few days, and I'll get out of your way."

She approached before he finished his sentence. He knew she was there before her hand touched the door; knew she had heard, and disapproved of his words before she entered the room and spoke up, "Pardon me."

Isobel looked up, straightening as the other spoke. "Rei! Look, he's awake." Her hand lowered itself onto his wrist as she turned to face him once more, looking just a touch amused as she grinned. "This is Anarei. She's my sister, but people have been mistaking her and Strahan for my parents."

"Izzy." The other smiled despite the tone of warning in her voice, a slight, wry thing that did not quite reach her eyes. She jerked her head briefly to the side in indication. "Dinner."

No, he did not see how anyone would mistake an adolescent girl as the mother of another girl at the start of _her _adolescence. And no, the idea of being left alone with this woman who had displayed some amount of _excitement_ in cutting him open was _not_ a savoury one. Helpless to challenge his fate, however, he could only feel his heart sink into the fiery pit in his abdomen as Isobel hopped out of the room.

Anarei closed the door. Languidly, with some measure of grace, she turned to face him, one arm folded over her waist whilst the other scratched idly at her temple. She seemed to grimace as something like pity touched her face. "I'm afraid a few days won't be enough. Not by a long shot."

"How long, then?" _Still too desperate. Try again. _"I'm... in a bit of a hurry, Miss Anarei. It wouldn't do for me to impose upon you like this." Satisfied with his tone, which was now more controlled and calm, he continued after dismissing the idea of even attempting a smile. "_Surely_ I'm interfering with your plans and schedules."

Anarei let out a quick "ha!" at that. Was that amusement he saw? She seemed to check herself after a moment, perhaps remembering propriety. "No, you aren't. There are worse things to worry about than the state of your insides, at any rate." She paused, clasping her hands together as she peered at him. Curiosity? "What happened to you? I know it wasn't the risen dead - or was it?"

The question was rhetorical, that much was obvious to him. While he found it unthinkable to smile just moments ago, a sardonic smile stretched across his lips easily now. "If it was, would you dispose of me?" He snorted; it made his ribs smart a bit, and he found the next words out of his mouth somewhat difficult to articulate. "I just got tripped up in a spot of trouble, is all."

"I'm a healer." She smiled wryly. Soft, but clipped footfalls fell upon wood as she made to occupy Isobel's chair. "Not an executioner. But your _spot _of trouble," Another pause, in which she studied his face intently. "Your no doubt _very small _spot of trouble will take no less than some months to heal fully. I wouldn't recommend you getting up before next month, at least."

He felt himself break out into a cold sweat at that. "Next _month_?" Out of reflex, he made to sit up, only to collapse back into bed as his abdominal muscles refused to respond. He resented the groan that escaped him.

The hand that reached to hold him down was warm. "Don't try to sit up. You've been through the mill and back, and if you keep thrashing about, you're going to rip my beautiful stitches apart."

The wounds flared again as he tensed, and he thought he could feel the said stitches then - both the ones on the outside, and those inside. He reached up with his good arm to wipe the sweat from his brows. "A month is much too long." He swallowed, genuinely feeling apologetic. "I'm sorry, but I'll have to decline your hospitality."

"I'm afraid I'll have to decline your declination." She frowned, withdrawing her hand as she straightened. "Look, you've obviously been in some trouble. With how badly hurt you were when we found you, I'm frankly surprised you lived at all." _Potion, of course. A lot of it. _He immediately wondered if she had read his thoughts; hazel eyes flashed briefly as her brows twitched. "In all honesty, I don't see how you're going to survive getting out of this bed and down the stairs, let alone weather the maelstrom out there. Undead and risen corpses, and all."

For a second he took that as a challenge and felt the compulsion to run off right then and there, then he remembered two things: One, his boots and his knives were nowhere to be seen. Two, he did not fancy becoming reanimated as an undead. Anarei looked equally disturbed by the latter matter.

Now that she had lost some of her graceful composure from earlier, he noted that she was young - almost having outgrown her girlhood, but not yet a woman. Her high cheekbones and her rosy complexion suggested the health of youth, which shone through the touch of haggardness she must have acquired from her recent experiences.

_She'd be about the same age. I wonder if Lady Chryse has grown into such a young lady by now._

Anarei seemed to shake the thoughts from her head, refocusing upon him. She bent forward, her voice deepening, earnest even as she spoke up once again. "We just want to help. That's all. Will you trust us, or are we going to have to ram our heads together?"

His jaws tightened. He was unpleasantly surprised - by the naivete of this young lady; such naivete, that she would pick up a stranger off the side of the road. "You've fixed me already. Can't we just part ways here? I don't have much coin on me, but I'll pay you for your... service, and I'll take care of myself from there on."

She regarded him in silence for a moment or two, pursing her lips and sucking in the sides of her cheeks. Blinked, frowned, straightened, then folded her hands delicately over her lap. Obviously cut - or worse, offended by his preposition, her previously warmer disposition faded in an instant. "Spare me your coins - we're not whores you pay off. We helped you because you helped our sister, and I personally intend to see this through to the end." One long index finger tapped her knee. The gesture was somewhat cold, even calculative. "I know how perfectly capable you are of taking care of yourself, sir - I saw the stitches and cut them free myself. Good job."

It was not a compliment. At the back of his mind, he thought he should feel dejected that he was given no credit for the job, which he had accomplished with a _straight_ needle, no less. "Is this what you do, now, healer?" He tried to make it sound snide, but it just came out as a sort of lamentation, despaired and miserable. "Force help upon your patients? Make their decisions for them?"

The corner of her lip twitched, as if she would smile. "Only when they're being difficult." She lifted her head just a touch. "At any rate, I can say with absolute certainty that you're going to die out there in this condition. I'm not letting my hard work go to waste, so you had best resign yourself to the fact. I'm _not _above chaining you to your bed."

His eyes widened at that, his shoulders squaring defensively. _Isn't there some sort of oath healers have to take that forbids them from hurting their patients? _His mind's eye informed him that they were on the top floor of a very large inn. It'd be a long way down.

If anything, Anarei was certainly amused at his reaction. She flashed him a bare, tired sort of smile, then waved a hand dismissively. "That's only if we _do _end up at odds, though." There it was again. That tone of warning. "How _did _you get hurt, though? Your injuries... they look nothing like those on the militia that I've been treating all day, and those were earned battling the risen dead. Yours..." She bit her lip. "...don't look quite as _interesting_."

Sharp daggers and serrated edges. He swallowed as he felt acid and bile at the back of his throat, as he recalled the feeling of his fingers around a broken blade, and his flesh - hot, wet and pulsating - around said fingers. "A run-in. An accident." He heard the weak quavering of his voice, and casted his gaze aside.

He had never been a very good liar.

She watched him through slanted eyes, then finally seemed to relent, pursing her lips and shrugging a shoulder carelessly. "Alright, then." Acknowledging his right to remain silent, she nonetheless appeared pleasant enough for the time being. "How shall I address you, sir? You know my name... my brother's name, and my sister's."

It occurred to him then that he couldn't remember the last time he had told someone else his name. _To know someone's name is to possess some amount of control over them_, his teacher once told him. _So be careful to whom you give that power. _

He could not - in this world now tainted with secrecy, betrayal and treachery; when _he _was likewise tainted - trust them. They were strangers to him, as much as he was a stranger to them.

Besides, there was no point dragging others into his problems. "Call me whatever pleases you, miss."

If Anarei was surprised at his response, she did not show it beyond the slight quirking of her lips. She chuckled, then offered a slight, resigned sort of nod. "If you wish, sir." Succinct, curt even as she rose to her feet. "I'll let you rest, then."

* * *

**Authors' Notes:  
**

**Oph: **Let's get the boring-but-important stuff out of the way. Blizzard owns Diablo. We own the ideas of this fic. "Eudia" is a punny derivation from "eudialyte", which is a red silicate mineral.

**Em:** There she goes, proving me right. (Go read our profile page, if you're curious about what I'm referring to.) Oh, and here's a bite for y'all to chew on. This fic is _not _going to progress at the rate canon does - ye have been warned.

**Oph: **Because where's the fun in that, right? You could just go and play the game then. By the by, fun fact: only one of us is playing the game. Guess that works in some good amount of check-and-balance, yeah?

**Em:** She means, she checks and balances when I spazz out over the canon storyline - not that we don't have enough of our own storyline (and then some more) to fill tons and tons of chapters. I also find it particularly lulzy that we already know everything that happens yea-whoa years down the road from now in this fic. Hee.

**Oph: **That means we can't please everyone. We're sorry about that. But not really. In other news, I think Em and I both agree that it's been interesting writing collaboratively like this. Hope our styles aren't so jarring that you can pick who wrote which part. Seriously, don't try to pick.

**Em: **Because it hurts even my head. Anyhow! We hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Reviews are not mandatory, but very much appreciated with love, fluffy bunnies and sweet tea-cakes.

**Oph: **If you're not into the sweet and fluffy, we also have mini-schnitzels and coffee. Seeya all next time!


	3. Chapter 2: A Fair Trade

**Chapter 2**

**A Fair Trade**

* * *

Screaming. Shouting. Swearing and cursing. Yelling and crying in pain. All forms of anguish took place in New Tristram's temporary infirmary.

Anger and panic. Frustration, fear.

_Block it out. You have to block it out. Strahan's never bothered by this sort of thing._

"Miss Anarei?"

She turned, searching out the source of the voice - found none. Frowning a touch, she bit her lip, then let out a yelp as something grasped her skirts and tugged. "Oi!"

Bright green eyes stared up at her from within the face of the child who stood by her side. He was little - too little to be out and about on his own. "Mama cry."

Anarei sighed. Bent to gather the child into her arms, rubbing his back as he threw short, fat arms about her neck. Chided herself inwardly for caring at all. "Let's go find your grandfather."

The other healers paid no heed as the pair ascended the stairs of the underground cellar. Wide and mostly sparse save for makeshift beds of straw on tables, the cellar was rank with the smell of damp earth, smoke, and old blood. Emptied vials littered the wet stone floors, a coat of oil staining the walls. An apprentice had overturned some lamps earlier in the day in her haste to aid - the wall burned, causing panic before someone saw enough sense to douse the flames with a nearby piss bucket.

The soldier had died anyway.

Anarei lifted one hand, gently pressing the child's head against her shoulder as he began to fidget. "Shh, it's okay." He squirmed a touch, and she held him closer, nudging her cheek into the side of his head.

_So much suffering - all for the sake of this endless war between heaven and hell. Even the children suffer, and this one's barely old enough to understand his loss._

Children _were _known to be intuitive - even in their innocence. Anarei swallowed. _And I had been glad for the delay in our journey. But not at this price, my gods and guardians. Not like this._

At the entrance into the cellar, she took a deep breath. The cool rush of early-night air filled her lungs, reminded her of home. The cold, hard, unfeeling north.

_Because that's what we are. The cold, hard, unfeeling inhabitants of the north. Never mind that our ancestral homeland was destroyed to preserve the essence of humanity._

Anarei shifted, readjusting her hold of the child. He clung close to her, sniffling softly. Apparently the cold air had calmed him as much as it had her. She smiled a little at the idea.

_Perhaps we are kinspirits in this troubled land, little one._

The town was mostly quiet by now. Families had retired to their homes, and strangers had begun to crowd the dining halls of the various inns scattered about the lanes. She glanced upwards as they passed her current residence, and as she had done so many times in past days, sought out the third window on the topmost floor.

_Lights. He's not asleep?_

The curtains were drawn, wooden panels thrown wide open. The sight made her wonder for a moment what the room's occupant was doing at present. They had spoken only a little more since their first encounter. He never said more than a few words at a time.

An enigma. _But an interesting one, nonetheless._

Still, she wondered if he were feeling better. His appetite had not improved, nor did his temper, despite Isobel's best efforts to help. He was tolerant at best, of company. Deep down inside, she suspected his unfriendliness stemmed from their meeting. In retrospect, perhaps she _had _been a bit too excited at the prospect of cutting him open. Just a little bit overzealous in her pursuit of new knowledge.

She shook her head, then let out a sigh - so close, too. So close to seeing, feeling, learning off a living patient, and one she had found on her own, no less. But Strahan was the elder - the senior, the _certified _healer, and he _would _have his way.

_It's probably for the best. At least he lived, and I got to practice my stitches._ She grimaced. _Again._

It occurred to her then that she still did not know his name. After the incident - the thrashing on his part, and the force with which she drugged him afterwards, Anarei wondered if she did not quite deserve his coldness towards her.

_Well. Nothing for it now - he probably thinks I'm mad anyway. _The thought both amused and worried her.

The child in her arms had begun to doze off by the time she crossed the threshold into the Slaughtered Calf. Briefly, she wondered why anyone would name an inn so - and decided she really did not care. She wove through the crowd - soldiers and village-men in various stages of inebriation, merchants and their wives, lone travellers, adventurers.

Anarei winced, tensing as the tell-tale crash of shattered glass sounded from within some dark, dimly-lit corner. She scowled and glanced over as the child in her arms shifted - and found only some young buxom woman surrounded by a sea of ardent admirers. They were likely drunk.

_I suppose some people take to living on the edge in the face of probable doom. At least she seems to be enjoying it._

"Master Bron?" She grunted, tearing her eyes from the sight. One of the men had begun to sing - loudly, and very badly. She raised her voice, and in her annoyance found it difficult to hide the impatience in her tone. "Master Bron, I've got your grandson."

The barkeeper looked up; his own green eyes, faded with weariness beyond his age, scanned about the increasingly-crowded room for a moment, before catching sight of his young grandchild. He called out the boy's name as he stepped out from behind the bar, only to have his voice drowned out by the drunken singing, now sustained by several men, the off-tune melody erupting into a slurred chorus with gusto.

Anarei bit her lip. Her impatience dissipated at the sight of the man - so beaten, so tired. _Did his generation not fight twenty years ago to avoid another war? Yet here he is. Here we all are. _

She managed a thin-lipped smile, then held out the sleeping boy, reaching to touch the older man's arm for the briefest of moments. "How is your daughter-in-law?"

"She'll be alright," the balding man replied, gathering the toddler into his arms. The boy stirred, barely opened his eyes before drifting off once more, heedless of the noise around him. "Just need a little time to come to terms with things, that's all." Cracking a weak, broken thing of a smile, he started to stroke his grandson's back soothingly, his gaze growing tender but despondent at once. "She'll be alright; she has this little one, after all."

_The greatest love a mother has to offer her child - to live on bravely in spite of all her losses. Hasn't there been one too many wife left to sob for the body of her husband up north? It's all too familiar..._

Her thoughts were interrupted as the liquor-dampened air was suddenly pierced by a bright ring of laughter, which, by the way Bron cringed faintly, was much too shrill a sound for a tired old man's ears. "How are your companions, Miss Naveau? The little miss is staying out of trouble, I hope?"

"As much as a thirteen-year-old can, Master Bron." Anarei smiled a little. She wasn't quite sure she managed to hide the grimness of her expression. Then again, it likely befitted what she needed to say.

_How do you offer condolences to a man who's just lost his son? And they did not even have a body to bury - the dead were burnt._

She settled with honesty. "I'm sorry for your loss, Master Bron. I truly am."

The barkeep dipped his head, blinking as he seemed to withdraw; and in that instant, he looked perhaps _decades_ older. "Thank you kindly, Miss Naveau." His voice was courteous, but frail, the sounds about the inn threatening to drown it out altogether. "You, on the other hand... I'm glad to hear that your guest lived."

_Ah. Him._

Anarei found she could not look the older man in the eyes. It was inexplicable - confusing as it seemed, she wondered if only for that moment if the old barkeep's son had deserved to live. If the young man whose sullen company she kept had deserved to die.

_Such thoughts don't belong in your mind, healer. He is your patient - so thank the guardians he is alive._

"It would have been very rude of him to die." She tried to smile, but grimaced instead. "The maids had the worst of it. I trust you heard of the infamous bloodbath his sheets soaked up afterwards."

_By the sounds of it, the entire town had heard._

"The maids thought someone _had_ died." Bron snorted - was that a hint of resentment in his tone? Perhaps he had been entertaining similar thoughts to Anarei's, after all. "We were wondering if we'd better start building a pyre. That _was_ an unhealthy amount of red on the sheets."

"Internal injuries, Master Bron." Anarei bit her lip. She hoped she looked as apologetic as she felt.

_This man's son has just died - why in the name of the guardians are we discussing our poor new friend?_

She shook her head, clearing her throat. "At any rate, I'm worry we frightened your maids. It was not our intent."

Bron shook his head dismissively. "Nothing to it. They've probably seen worse, and if they haven't, it's about time they start getting used to it." He flinched as the drunken group cheered loudly, the feminine laughter seeming to offer encouragement. "I'd best tuck this one into bed before the night gets rowdy, Miss Naveau."

_Rowdier. It's already plenty rowdy in here._

Anarei watched as the old man took his leave, followed the slumping curve of his aged shoulders as he bore the now-fatherless child away. The group in the corner had begun to sing once again, boisterous voices raised in a sing-song sort of chant. She sighed quietly, bowing her head - then noted that it ached for relief.

Turning on her heels, she made towards the stairwell, cursing the fires of hell even as she sought the solitude of her own room.

* * *

"How's gut-boy doing?"

Anarei stared at her brother. Then sighed, lifting a hand to rub at her forehead. "Don't call him that," she grunted. "It's rude."

He laughed dryly, shaking his head. Aqua-blue eyes gleamed as they watched her in turn. "So what am I supposed to call him then?"

"Anything but _that_." She scowled. "Friend. Stranger. Boy. Sir. Anything you care to dub him."

Strahan eyed her briefly. From where he sat, reclining into the plush red velvet of his chair, Anarei thought he could well be a nobleman.

_Like a panther waiting to pounce. Only, you're not. You're just my brother._

"Gut-boy." The smile upon his face irritated her. He knew it full well.

"He could well be _your _brother, you know." She snapped, shifting heavily in her currently-occupied armchair. It was old, with springs that seemed determined to jab her in the side the moment she got comfortable. She drove away the idea that it may be moth-infested. "He's got your eyes."

Strahan arched an eyebrow. "Mine are blue."

Anarei wrinkled her nose. "Dual-toned. You're just lucky yours aren't as obvious." She shifted again, throwing her legs over the arm of the chair, leaning back against the other. The springs voiced their annoyance. "And you've both got straight hair."

_Ouch. Ouch. Damn it._

"Mine is _black_ and _far _longer." Strahan reached for a cushion. She yelped as it hit her squarely on the chest. "If you're _that _uncomfortable, we can go sit in the dining hall."

She slipped the cushion under her, then sighed with relief as the springs appeared to halt their attack. "There are people doing all sorts of unsavoury things in there. I'd much rather be here."

Strahan responded with a careless sort of shrug. "Fair enough."

Anarei lowered her head onto the arm of her chair, turning her head gently to study her brother. They'd hardly had time to speak throughout the week - he'd been busy with the militia, and she'd spent almost every waking hour with the injured. The delay in their journey was, at this point, inevitable. He knew it as well as she did, though she doubted he welcomed it as readily.

"What?" He frowned at her.

She managed a faint smile. Her brother had aged. "You look tired."

He made a scoffing sound, shutting his eyes and leaning back into his seat. The fireplace crackled in the temporary silence, a soft thump rising amidst faint hisses as a spent log fell to pieces, burnt away to ash. "So do you. But there's no way out of this otherwise."

"Do we _have _to go to Lut Gholein?" She braved. He always got annoyed when she brought up the subject.

"Master said." He responded mildly.

"Da." Anarei corrected him tiredly. Throughout the years, it had become a sort of game - a twisted routine. Daily reminders that he was family, and yet _not _family.

_For my part, I have always considered you my brother. You just complicate things needlessly. _

Strahan smiled wearily at her, as if having read her thoughts. "_Our_ father said."

_Better._

"I know what he said, but the road there is plagued with all kinds of dangerous situations." Anarei drew her hands up, clasping them over her abdomen. "It's not safe, and we've got Izzy with us."

He sighed deeply. "Don't use your sister as an excuse, Rei. That's not fair."

_Ah, hells. He knows me too well. _

She began to scowl, then reminded herself that her intentions - at least those in relation to her sister, were entirely honourable. "Don't think so lowly of me. It _is _dangerous. She could've gotten seriously hurt if gut-boy hadn't caught her before she fell."

Strahan's smirk made her angrier. She swore under her breath and heard him laugh in response. "Well, don't use _him _as an excuse, either. Sooner or later, we'll have to leave."

"I know it." Anarei grunted. "I just want to be home, though. Not packed away to safer grounds like a little girl." She felt her brow furrow, then shut her eyes and slapped her hand to her face. "Strahan, I _hate _this."

"I know _that_." Through the cracks between her fingers, she thought she saw a fleeting moment of guilt reflected in his eyes. He regarded her calmly, as he always did. It felt a touch cold at times. "It's not permanent."

_Of course it isn't. If you're going to permanently relocate me to that pit of heat, sand and salty seawater, I'm going to break things._

"We could stay here. Help the people - can't you see how much they need it?" She sat up quickly, causing him to blink placidly at her. "I'm serious. We _could_."

"Rei." He pursed his lips.

_Oh, guardians. Here it comes._

Strahan straightened in his seat, clasping his hands over the arms of his chair. Pale, slender fingers tapped the upholstered perch as his brows furrowed. He regarded her with slightly-narrowed eyes. "You're not this person you've become. You have to stop - stop trying to find an excuse to delay our journey. Stop using everyone, and everything as your personal buffer. Sooner or later, there'll be no shield left for you to use, and you'll have to go anyway." He paused, fisting his hand. "And no-one likes to be used. The gods know, and I know you're backed into a corner here, but this is _not _you."

She stared at him for a moment. Opened her mouth to retort, but found herself silenced as he lifted a hand. Clamping her mouth shut, she thought she could feel her jaw tensing. Her cheeks burned.

"You have become a crazy woman who grasps at straws in an attempt to avoid the madhouse." Strahan reached out and took both her shoulders. "Give me my sister back. The one who was sane and considerate."

_Good gods and guardians. That's not what I'd expected to hear. What I want to hear, even._

She brushed his hands off. As much as she hated to admit it, he _was _right. Yet she found herself snarling as she jumped to her feet. Anger - anger, frustration, and disappointment bubbled within her. Disappointment at herself, frustration at the situation. She tried to speak, but could only gape wordlessly.

_I hate this. Hate this, hate this, hate this._

"Uh, excuse me, I don't mean to interrupt..."

She turned around.

_Gut-boy. _The involuntary and instinctive use of the name made her wince. _No, not gut-boy._

"You're up and about." Her voice had somehow returned - she was pleased to discover it calm and unbroken.

He offered her a smile - merely a faint, half-hearted quirk of the lips. "Mm. I've walked in at a bad time, have I?" His voice was soft, tired and breathless, and despite his words, he took a step closer towards an empty chair, grasping the back of it to keep himself upright. "Pardon me, Miss Anarei, Mister Strahan, but I just have a small query - would you happen to know where my scarf is?"

"What?" Anarei frowned as she looked the young man over. There they were - those eyes, so similar to Strahan's, yet so different. Dual-toned; green that faded to grey as opposed to shades of blue. It wasn't until after he'd smiled that she realised he could be pleasant to look at.

_What did he want again? _She grimaced, checking herself. _Inappropriate staring. Right, he wanted his scarf._

She forced a thin-lipped smile. "Likely drying with the rest of your things. The maids have only just finished with the linens. I'll have it sent to your room once it's ready."

He blinked quickly, seeming to deflate at the answer. "Oh." For an instant, he looked to be at a loss, like a child deprived of his favourite blanket, but the moment passed and he simply inclined his head courteously. "Right. Thanks for that, and sorry that it's so much trouble."

"Don't worry about it." She pursed her lips, once again, looking the young man over. It occurred to her just then that he'd managed to get out of bed - and had found them, apparently, without any trouble.

_I suppose that means he'll be off on his merry way soon enough._

She sighed heavily, then turned towards Strahan. "I don't suppose the two of you have met, officially?"

Strahan smiled. She wondered if, for a moment, he was bored - but then she recalled his words from before, and found the rage in the pit of her stomach bubbling once again. He seemed to realise, his voice thin and crisp as he spoke up. "No, we haven't. It's good to see you're better," He slanted his gaze towards Anarei. Pointedly, he added, "Sir."

The young man dipped his head again, his fingers doggedly curled around the back of the chair, even as his knuckles whitened with the strain of remaining on his feet. "Thank you for all your help, sir. Miss Isobel had mentioned... I have you both to thank for being alive right now." The gratitude fell far short of his eyes, however. "I'll take my leave, then, if you two wish to resume your conversation. Sorry that I cut in so rudely."

"No, stay." Anarei gritted her teeth. She'd spoken up a touch more hastily than she would have liked, but there seemed no better time than the present. "We were just discussing our plans, and since it would appear that you are to be a part of them for the present, you should be here."

_The gods will have to understand. I need this. Just this month, and then I'll go to Lut Gholein and smile and be nice. I'm sorry, stranger, but you'll have to take this arrow for me - I save your life, you give me this one month. It's a fair trade._

Strahan let out a low grunt, obviously frustrated. She wondered for a moment if he would disagree - then he gestured towards her vacated chair. "Please, take a seat, sir."

He hesitated for a moment; then, rather than taking the offered seat, the young man merely lowered himself into the chair that he had used to keep himself upright, failing to suppress a wince as he ended up almost collapsing into it, his hand pressed over his right side even while he straightened up stiffly. "So I..." He cut himself off, cleared his throat softly, and looked warily between his two recently-acquired companions. "...I've got about three more weeks here, haven't I?"

_Oh. He's decided to stay after all? I had thought he'd have needed more convincing._

She glanced towards Strahan. For now, she would be content to listen.

"Until our young miss Naveau deems you fit for travel, yes." Strahan's voice was bland. He folded his hands together, placing his elbows upon his lap. "I hear you're in a hurry, however."

"No use hurrying until I _can_ hurry, is there, sir?" There it was again, the pathetic little smile. Yet it was still better than the perpetual scowl he had been wearing every time she saw him over the past week or so. "However, if you'd prefer to move on before then, I give you my word... I _will_ stay until the month is up."

"Hm. Fancy that." Strahan's eyebrows hang high in his forehead as he turned his gaze to her. He crooked a light, but smug sort of smile. "I suppose we don't really have a reason to delay our journey, do we?"

Anarei scowled. Her hands began to tremble, and she had a slight suspicion that she would soon scream if she were to remain in the room.

_He's a stranger. I don't even know him, but right now, I want to hurt him. _

She swallowed. Forced herself to breathe. "There's still the other issue - the risen dead. I don't think it's a good idea to travel while there are so many of them about the fields."

Strahan narrowed his eyes a little. "You have two swords, Anarei, and we both know you're more than adept at wielding them." His gaze darkened. "Remember what we discussed."

_You mean, when you said I was a crazy woman?_

That had stung. Even moreso, because she knew he was right.

"Well?" Strahan blinked at her. "What now?"

Anarei swallowed. It was getting harder to breathe - the air, previously deliciously warm, was now overly hot. Burning, melting, suffocating.

_I have to get out of here before I end up crying like a baby. Not in front of them._

She barely managed to grunt. "Do whatever you want."

Then she turned on her heels, and mustering whatever dignity she had left, strode out as quickly as she could.

* * *

He watched her go; his mind's eye saw her retreat to her room, likely slammed the door.

He turned to Strahan, incomprehensive of the situation, and hoped that his expression expressed his sentiments sufficiently. Hoped that he would not have to voice his questions and run the risk of saying something wrong - he had the distinct feeling that he, as unwitting as he was, had somehow offended the young miss.

The other shrugged a shoulder. "It's not you."

He wasn't so sure. He _had _intruded, after all - not only into their conversation, but into their travels, into their little companion group, into their _lives_. _A disturbance_, came the accusation. _Nothing but trouble, and now you're troubling everyone around you as well. _

As if he'd sensed his discomfort, Strahan shook his head, lifting a hand. Like his companion, he bore signs of exhaustion and spiritual weariness about his person. Unlike his companion, he did not appear the least bit frustrated - at least not openly so. "My sister isn't too keen on our travels. Perhaps you've realised this."

_Siblings._ He mused. _They don't look alike, though I suppose it's not always true when they say blood is thicker than water. _"Is Miss Anarei homesick? Though - and forgive me if my interpretation is misinformed - she seems more vehement about staying here than she is about going home." He swallowed, deliberated whether the subject was too personal to bring up, and decided it was most likely not so. "Home is north, is it?"

Strahan raised an eyebrow. "Virkove, yes." His tone was nonetheless light, somewhat indifferent as he flexed his hands slowly. "She's not quite homesick so much as she doesn't want to go where we're headed. Of course, that's not your problem - _you _are in no way obliged to stay for her sake."

His eyes were fixed upon those of the young man's, and with a sudden surge of panic, the latter averted his gaze - but not before he had caught a glimpse of the gradients within the irises of the other man. _A clansman of Rathma - a necromancer? _Virkove, he knew, was a major stronghold of the barbarian tribes of the north...

_Sit on it; don't think too much into it right now. _"I just hope I haven't complicated your plans and those of your companions, sir." _Nice and easy, now. Test the water. _"I'll be out of your hair as soon as possible."

"At the end of the month." Strahan smiled tiredly.

_Damn it. _

Outside the presence of his sister, Strahan seemed less inclined to be stern. Yet there were traces of _something _in his face, and in the way his voice flowed - smooth and distant, that painted him a formidable force. This was not a man to cross, however young he looked. "Miss Naveau's assessment, albeit driven by selfish motives, is accurate. That's not to say she would've left you to rot had she found you in different circumstances. However..." He cleared his throat. "You _will _need at least a month to get back on your feet - personally, I would also feel more comfortable knowing you had healed properly before we resumed our journey."

A month. He'd have to remember to estimate how much distance he'd have lost within that time. "So... will _you _be staying until the end of the month also? The situation outside, with the risen dead, could well become _worse_ as time goes on."

The other regarded him in silence. Then offered a barely perceptible nod of the head. "There is no point in leaving while the situation remains this uncertain outside. We'll stay until then."

So it was decided. The circumstances were still far from ideal, but he could work with this.

Despite Strahan's assurance that he played no decisive part in the matter, he nevertheless found himself unable to shake the feeling that Anarei was angry with him, and out of the prospects of being chained to his bed, force-fed, sliced open with fervour and stitched back together with relish, he would rather experience _none_ of them. Especially not from the young, overly-eager healer.

"Perhaps I may have a word with her, if you'll allow it, Mister Strahan."

Strahan looked amused. "You don't have to ask my permission to speak to her. But if you're headed that way, you can tell her we've decided upon one month, then. That should cheer her up."

He took his leave, not forgetting the required etiquette, and went to climb the stairs. It made him impatient that he had to climb them one step at a time, but he knew that the present state of his body would not allow step-skipping, and the third floor was a _long_ way up. Remembering his mental note halfway up to the first floor, he tried to do some calculations in his head while he continued to ascend. Shortly after making the milestone of the first floor landing, he found that the mental task made his head spin, and thought better of concentrating on anything other than stair-climbing.

By the time he reached Anarei's door, he was fighting to catch his breath and had broken out into a sweat. _Bloody wounds. Damned cuts. _"Miss Anarei? May I have a word with you?"

Silence. Nothing but silence for several long moments. The voice that answered thereafter was thick, as if its owner had just finished, or was still throwing a tantrum of sorts. "What do you want?"

He slumped against the doorframe. Feeling less likely to keel over, he spoke up as firmly as he could manage between his breaths. "Just a chance for me to apologise, and deliver some good news?"

The face that greeted him when she opened the door was pale. It served to highlight the lines of red beneath her eyes - she had obviously been crying. Yet she fixed her eyes upon him, faced him proudly. "You have nothing to apologise for." She swallowed twice, then averted her eyes, blinking hard. "Come in and sit. You look like a fate worse than death."

He pondered what a fate worse than death would look like, thought about an illustration he saw in a book of the archangel Ithereal, and imagined him in a black tattered cloak. The next thing he knew, he had somehow fallen into a chair; his head cleared a little, and he wondered if he had enough blood in his body to function properly at present.

_Nothing to it, now._ "My attitude?" He blinked, and his vision focused upon her doe-like eyes. _Appeal to her. Let her feel sorry for herself, if she so desires. _"I haven't been the most... obedient of patients. Sorry if I've made your life more difficult than it already is."

She gave him a look. Despite the predominant misery in her face, she managed a smile, a faint little thing that neither reached her eyes nor warmed her expression. She looked pleasantly surprised, however. "We've both been remiss. I'm afraid I haven't been on my best behaviour, either."

"Hard to be your best, given the circumstances, I suppose." He shrugged, and the cut stretching from his left shoulder to his chest smarted angrily. He bit back a groan, admonished himself for his carelessness. _So much for composure. Damned cuts, indeed._

"Are you okay?" Was that genuine worry in her eyes as she reached towards him? Her eyes narrowed somewhat, though not unkindly as she retracted her hand. "You're going to have to be careful, sir. Please try, for your own sake."

_Alright, now toughen up and try again._ "Thanks; I'm _fine_, Miss Anarei." He considered telling Anarei the final decision regarding the length of the stay, before realising that holding it off for a while would probably make the news that much sweeter. "And what about yourself? You're not doing too well, now, are you?"

She drew away from him as she straightened, pursing her lips. "I'm fine too." The faint grimace on her face was not convincing. "Or will be, anyway, once I come to terms with this. Don't worry about it."

He started to sit up straighter, in a subconscious mirroring of Anarei's shift in posture, before his insides churned and ached, and settled for hunching in his seat. He grumbled under his breath.

_Well, this is inconvenient._

He felt both regret and amusement for the young miss, and after a moment of deliberation, settled with expressing the former sentiment through his tone. "Your destination's really so bad, that you'd rather stay in this town, put up with a smelly inn, and take care of people who are about to die or _will_ die - and in the latter case, _may _rise as an undead?"

"Sometimes..." She considered him for a moment, having watched him with something like amusement on her face before breathing deeply and turning away. Perhaps she was hiding another smile, though he thought it was unlikely to be any less morose. "Sometimes it's not about the destination, young sir. I'm sure there are people in the world you'd rather avoid. We are not so different then."

_Oh, Little Miss Anarei. You have _no_ idea. _"So... _you_ don't want to go where you have to go, and _I_ don't want to stay where I have to stay." A sardonic snort; he couldn't help himself. "Is _this_ how we're not so different? We're not so different in completely different ways."

Anarei apparently had little trouble following his musings. Her footsteps were heavy as she stepped to the open window a little ways behind him; then she leaned back against the wooden sill, half-sitting. "Quite, I suppose. Either way, it just means we'd both rather be someplace else."

He started to feel a little bit sorry for her, and decided it was about time that he relieved her of her immediate worries. Some of them, anyway. "Miss Anarei, I came to talk to you, to apologise, because I think we'd much rather avoid - in your words - ramming our heads together, if we're going to be in each other's company until the end of my month here."

She watched him for a moment, perched so heavily upon the windowsill. Her eyelids lifted, as did both her brows, though the change was subtle. Then she seemed to smile, before bowing her head a little, and he heard genuine guilt in the tone of her voice. "I'm sorry. We all know I'm just... trying to delay. It's not something I'm proud of. Just your luck, hm?" A soft, scoff-like sound escaped her. "You had to run into the emotionally unstable healer."

Delay. Luck. Emotionally unstable. Those words echoed sharply in his head for an instant, flashed in his mind's eye like a fleeting shadow. He lowered his head and rubbed over his forehead with his right hand; it made him feel a bit better. "Just my luck I ran into _any_ healer at all, miss."

"Hmm." The sound came out soft and low. She turned her head, evidently wearied even as she gazed out into the moonlit streets. Her hands grasped the wooden sills, gripped them hard. "I'm sorry too. For using you this way." Another sigh. "But thank you, in advance, for your time."

"You have no reason to thank me, Miss Anarei." He shook his head as he said those words, and _meant_ them. He dropped his hand back to his lap, and, after taking a second to brace himself, straightened into an unsteady stand, using the chair as support. "That's all, then. I'll stop disturbing you."

Anarei dipped her head gently at him, eyes half-lidded - for someone who had gotten exactly what she'd wanted, she did not look very happy. Yet she hopped off her perch, striding towards him. Her lips curled in a slight smile. Unreserved, she reached out, warm hands wrapping firmly about his shoulder and upper arm. "Come on, then. Let's get you back to your bed before you fall over. Gods know you don't need another injury to keep you here another month."

Another month. He tried to imagine where he would be, how he would be, once this month of his ended. Tried to envision his more able-bodied self, tried to imagine himself running -

_Where to?_

All he saw was that shadow again, and nothing else. Suddenly, he wondered if he wouldn't rather be kept here for another month, after all.

* * *

**Authors' Notes:**

**Em: **Whoo! Another chapter, another load of juicy details for you to churn over! Let's start by doing the usuals - Blizzard owns Diablo and all aspects of canon. We just twist little bits to suit our fancy and toss in poor, helpless kids that we then proceed to torture.

**Oph: **Don't tell me you didn't see that coming. It's sort of a given that there's character-abuse when it comes to, well, Diablo, andUS.

**Em:** More like Diablo and YOU. I just want them to fall in love and live happily ever after, as per your profiling of me. Speaking of profiles (and in particular the way I had profiled you), I believe there was something you wanted to bring up? Something you perhaps researched a lot?

**Oph: **Well, there's no puns in this chapter, and I didn't exactly research HEAPS about it, but about the eye thing, it's called sectoral/partial heterochromia. Literally, "hetero-chromia", "different-colour". I love that scientific jargon is so literal sometimes. Google it if you're still unsure. It's an idea I've brought over from my DII fic.

**Em:** Or, you could drop us a review to ask us more about it. We'll definitely be glad to fill you in. It's THAT easy!

**Oph: **We DO want to know what you think of this: how we're going, what you like, what you don't like, if you think this story's awesome, or if you think it sucks. Feedback, we hunger for feedback!

**Em: **Because feedback is every writer's brain-juice. Aside from... actual brain-juice in the form of coffee. And no, Oph, I don't mean zombies. On that note, it's Em and Oph signing off for now! Until next time!


	4. Chapter 3: A Little Knowledge

**Chapter 3**

**A Little Knowledge is a Dangerous Thing**

* * *

_Loose the arrow. Wait. Too far to the left. Another one. Again._

The annoying thing about the undead was that no matter how mangled their bodies were, unless you hit them where it really counted, they would still try to rip your face off your skull. Never mind that they were reduced to no more than a pile of shredded limbs, they still seemed to _hunger_.

Or even as a disembodied head, apparently. _Curses, I guessed wrong._ She was comfortable with firing at the undeads who... ran on their hearts, as the militia would say; but these ones that ran on their _heads_...

She wasn't a bad shot, but she'd much rather let someone with a blunt-force weapon handle those.

On top of that, she really did not want to get close enough to be able to_ recognise_ those faces.

She stepped back, so swiftly that the little braid at the side of her head flicked briefly into her field of vision. Her hand moved to check the contents of the quiver hung at her side.

Four more arrows. Just as well. She was getting tired.

"You feeling alright, Leah?"

She smiled easily, accustomed to the undertone of adoration from the man. "Just fine, Greige." Clapping a hand firmly onto the man's hard shoulder as he took her place in the line of defence, she called out cordially to him as he raised his axe. "Fight well! For me."

Without waiting for a response, Leah turned on her heels and slipped behind the sheet of canvas serving as the entrance to a stall that housed all the medical supplies. She would catch her breath here, and collect her thoughts.

She let out a long sigh as she leaned against a post in the far corner of the stall. _This is going nowhere. _

Her uncle had been missing for more than a week now, and she had been too late in seeking help. The militia was _swamped_, with the dead crawling out of their graves everywhere. Not to mention - a ragtag gathering consisting mostly of local farmers, blacksmiths, butchers, carpenters, shepherds and fishermen made a rather poor excuse for a militia.

_Losers can't be choosers. _

Suddenly overtaken by a combination of frustration, anxiety and despair, Leah let herself slide down the post to sit upon the ground. At this rate, she would never learn the fate of her uncle.

"We really appreciate all your help, sir." Captain Rumford's voice, and two pairs of footsteps, approached. She decided to remain where she was behind a stack of crates, and out of his sight - she was feeling too flustered to deal with company for the moment.

Rumford had his back to her, but Leah could see his companion rather clearly. He was tall, his face was gaunt, but otherwise he was of average build beneath layers of robes worn with folded sleeves. His hands were stained with blood. The fact did not appear to bother him - if anything, his expression suggested a hint of boredom beneath the surface of fatigue. He flicked a long, loosely-bound ponytail over his shoulder; both hands were otherwise occupied with a wooden crate of medical supplies. As he drew closer, she thought she saw a gleam of silver amidst the black of his hair.

"Did the dead rise before the quake?" He set the crate down. Gestured Rumford into a chair, then reached for one of the vials within his crate. "Or is this a fairly recent development?"

_Ah. A healer._

The captain fell into a seat with a soft thump. "It was the quake. Gods know something unholy is going on about the cathedral. Sometimes I wonder if it's not cursed grounds after all..." He sighed, then held his arm out. She caught a glimpse of a deep gash, thickly-coated with blood and grime.

_And yet none of you dare to explore the place. _She reached up to rub away the dirt sticking to her lashes. Superstitions, most likely. Goodness knew the kinds of crazy rumours that are going around the city right now, with the dead rising.

"Will you be staying for long, sir?" Rumford's voice came out strained, and she could hear him wincing under his breath. "You and your companions? Is it alright for the little miss to be alone while you and Miss Naveau are out all day?"

The healer seemed to smirk as he began to clean the captain's wound. Evidently completely oblivious, or else numb to the soft grunts of pain that escaped his patient as he worked, he appeared to be completely focused upon his task. "She's fine. Miss Naveau manages to keep an eye on her from the infirmary, and she's smart enough to know what to avoid." He reached for a vial of potion, straightening to uncork it. "As to your question, I'm afraid we'll have to leave by the end of the month. Other obligations, I'm sure you'll understand."

_Travellers. They come and go, pass through, but never really to stay. And they leave us to deal with our own problems. _

"Will your guest be leaving with you?" Rumford's voice again, after a loud yelp.

"Ah." Whatever the healer had done, it had obviously helped. He set the now-emptied vial aside, then once again bent out of sight as he continued to work. "No. We are but strangers, after all."

_Perfect. Not only will they leave us to deal with our problems, but they're going to leave theirs behind, too._ She felt her lips starting to turn downwards into a scowl.

"You saved his arse, just as you've saved many arses of the men here." The captain sounded more at ease, now. "We consider you more than a mere stranger, just as he ought to, huh?"

The healer laughed. She wondered for a moment why the sound came off so sardonic, then dismissed it as a character fault. "It is said that in wartime, all who stand for the same banner are no mere strangers. They are brothers." He paused. She wondered if he would follow with something equally inspiring. "That's not always the case, is it?"

"Does your guest not stand for the same banner, then?" She could hear the ironic grin in Rumford's tone. "I thought it's_ us_ against_ them_, these days... humans against hellspawns."

"Mm. Perhaps." The healer's tone suggested a non-committal approach to the situation. He spoke plainly, as if explaining a simple concept to a young child, "Those don't look like injuries sustained battling demons. Definitely not the kind we've been seeing here recently." He wound bandages about the captain's arm as he spoke, his tone light. "At any rate, it's not our business."

"It would be, if he's staying here. We'd rather have some idea of kind people we're taking in." He was wary of the travellers. Leah understood the sentiment - as much as they said they were under one banner, people could be scum, and this town could not afford to take another hit, much less from one of its own inhabitants. "Was it an accident from the quake, or is there more?"

The healer finished off with his task, carefully tucking the loose ends of the captain's bandages into themselves. Neatly-performed, without much effort on his part. Clearly he was a healer of some aptitude. He seemed to consider the captain for a moment, straightening and crossing his arms over his chest. The blood-stained hands barely touched the fabric of his robes. "There's more."

_Straightforward._

"We found him in quite a severe situation." The healer added. "He was badly wounded, and because he carries weapons, we're inclined to believe he had been a fighter of sorts. What kind, I'm not entirely sure - only that he knows what he's doing. Apparently, anyway."

"Sir," Rumford spoke up grimly, darkly. "We don't want anymore trouble. If he's _with_ us, we'll let him stay. If not..." His voice lowered; stern, but quietened in such a way that failed to sufficiently mask the anxiety beneath. "...We'll have to ask that you take him away, or _we_ will."

_Hold your horses, Rumford. Perhaps this can be of use, after all. _

The healer looked unimpressed. One jet-hued brow rose in his forehead - then he let out something of a dry, quiet chuckle. Perhaps he found the veiled threat amusing. "Captain, if it comes that he _does _mean any of you harm, then by all means, end his rotten life. Until he does, however, I must ask that you not hurt one of our own. Not everyone is an enemy."

_Someone who can fight, who isn't very welcome here, and probably has something I can hold over his head, if I can find it._ The gears were turning in her head. She felt hopeful - too careful yet to be elated, but here was a will - perhaps she could find the way.

The northern healers and their guest. Now this could be worth her time.

* * *

A pinch of salt in the bubbling sauce, a quick drizzle of oil over the heavy-set pan heating atop the stove. She reached for the wooden chopping board, gathered the mix of minced ingredients in the palm of her hand and tossed them in carelessly. The soft sizzling calmed her somewhat.

_Such mundane work. But people have to eat._

Standing in her corner of the inn's unfamiliar kitchen, Anarei nonetheless found herself in familiar surroundings.

_Like brewing a potion or a salve - only no-one dies if you over-salt your dish._

Mindlessly, she reached for the bowl beside her chopping board. Strahan had brought in a rabbit earlier in the day - a poor, lame creature that had tangled itself in the snares set to ward away the wandering undead. It was small - beyond a sparse layer of muscle, there was barely a shred of meat to be had.

_If this keeps up, the villagers have to forage in the wild for food. The trade routes are so dangerous now..._

She frowned, pressing the small-cut pieces of rabbit flat onto the pan. Fragrant, nonetheless, amidst the aroma of garlic, onion, and thyme.

_At least we're in no shortage of spices and herbs. Yet._

Bereft of its usual occupants, the kitchen of the Slaughtered Calf was quiet. Dimly-lit by the dying embers at the fireplace, it seemed as if all the life had fled. There was little food to cook and even fewer travellers to be had. Bron had sent most of his maids home for the day - to be with their families, he had said. Then he had locked himself in his own chambers.

She had not seen him since.

The rabbit sizzled yet again. As if on cue, she poked at them with her metal tongs, then began to flip each piece over. The pincer-like utensil in her hand reminded her of spiders.

_Spiders or scorpions - and we know those were corrupted in the previous war, twisted unnaturally to serve the lords of hell._

She scowled at the cooking rabbit. In that moment, she was fearful - fearful, frustrated and angry. If the lords of hell were behind the recent turn of events, she didn't see much hope in fighting back.

_Yet it seems fighting back is all we can do. Why did da, and uncle, and grand-da fight so hard then? If it all comes back to this, why did they fight so hard, lose so much?_

Suddenly impatient, she lifted the pan from the stove. The rabbit was cooked through, anyway - browned or no, it would have to do. She turned the pan over the pot of sauce, then busied herself with stirring in the pieces.

_Done._

She glanced over at her tray. Bread, cheese, a small bunch of grapes, and a mug of hot tea.

_I hope he's hungry today._

Hot steam rose to her face as she spooned a measurable amount into a bowl. _Save some for Isobel and Strahan. Master Bron and his family need to eat, too. There we go._

Satisfied, she set the bowl down onto the tray, nudged the accompanying fork into place, then glanced out the window. It was likely lunch-time by now.

The washroom stood, silent and empty as the kitchen had been. She stood at the doorway, chewing her lip, the tray held close to her abdomen even as her gaze strayed about.

_I'm forgetting something._

A flash of white caught her gaze. Folded neatly over a small pile of clothes and bed-linen, the scarf her new companion had enquired after was about as interesting as a bed of rocks.

_Well, he did ask for it._

Anarei let out a quiet sigh, then reached to snatch up the folded garment. For a moment or two, she considered picking up the rest of the linens - then decided she could afford to stretch out her jobs. There was precious little to do at present, and she didn't quite fancy an idle mind. She noted that the scarf was soft. As she tossed it over her shoulder to keep it from dirtying in the tray, she decided it would make a comfortable, warm wrap.

He was asleep when she slipped into his room. She knew at first by his deep, slow breathing, since he was turned towards the wall, curled up on his left side - perhaps the wounds on his shoulder and chest weren't hurting so much anymore. It made her both glad and sad at the same time.

Gently, she set the tray down on his bedside table. His breath hitched a bit, and for a moment or two since their first conversation, she allowed herself to wonder who he was. What had happened to him, and how much he had suffered. A possible conclusion eluded her - she knew so little.

_He looks so small like this. So fragile._

She reached for the blanket swathed so carelessly about his torso, then lifted it a bit to cover his shoulder. _There. You look less small now. Less like a small, frightened child. _

He shivered nevertheless, and curled into himself a little more tightly. A tiny, guttural whine escaped him.

_I wish we could've kept him on the sedatives. But it's better like this. If he wants to heal within the month, this is his price._

Perhaps her entry into the room had disturbed him somewhat; the sleeping young man whined again - and this time it sounded more like a pained grunt. His face contorted into a grimace as he trembled once more, drawing a sharp hiss of breath through his clenched teeth.

Suddenly, she found herself guilty - guilty for intruding, guilty for using him to her own ends. Here he was, a man she could see was genuinely plagued with a shadow hidden to her. Here she was, watching him as he suffered. The thought shamed her.

She bent over and clasped one hand upon his shoulder. Tentatively, carefully, she spoke up. "Sir?"

His eyes snapped open, and she could see the tears swimming within. For a long moment he simply appeared dazed, before his breathing started to quicken, his expression taking on a panicked cast.

He drew his left hand out from behind his blanket. She saw the slender digits, slick beneath a layer of blood - and barely managed to contain the gasp that escaped her.

_Gods and guardians, what did you do to yourself?_

"It's okay." She breathed. Hated herself for lying, and hated herself for being uncertain. Yet she squeezed his shoulder, reaching out with her free hand to throw his sheets back.

His reaction was instantaneous; letting out a cry in what sounded like primal fear, he lashed out and slapped her hand away sharply. Sheets fell away from his body as he kicked out towards her, however feeble his attempt.

"Ach!" Anarei grunted, gnashing her teeth together as his hand came into contact with hers. The scarf upon her shoulder slid to the floor, its tips barely brushing against the crimson now coating his bandages. She was certain it had flicked against the skin of her cheek. Wincing, she reached to him again, and this time gripped harder, firmer.

She sounded more confident than she felt even as he cried out in what sounded like terror. "Sir, _please_! Sir, _listen _to me!"

"Get awa- don't TOUCH me!" He tried to jerk away from her, retreating towards the wall only to get as far as slamming his injured shoulder against it, keening between his gasps even as he doggedly attempted to break free of her hold.

_Ah, Korlic, Madawc and Talic - what am I to do with this one?_

"Stop." She muttered through her teeth, tightening her grip of his shoulder even as the other went to his wrist, gripping it as best she could beneath her fingers. He cried out once more, the sound piteous to her ears. "Please, stop. _Please!_" She pleaded. There was a desperate tinge to her voice, one she knew to be similar to his.

_What do the books say? Calm the patient down - that's not happening. _She made a frustrated sound, then flinched as he made to shove her away again. _I can't do this indefinitely. The hells be damned, he'll tear everything if he keeps this up. He'll die._

His wrist wrenched and twisted in her grasp, causing spots of red to bloom upon the white bandages over the corresponding shoulder. "Don't make me..." He sobbed loudly, his voice harsh and grating, though it soon began to weaken rapidly. "I don't want to - your head... your innards..." He squeezed his eyes shut while his hands closed into fists, his tone a mere rasp now, as the trembling of his body intensified. "On... my hands..."

_What's that?_

She shuddered involuntarily. In that moment, she wondered if it had been the right decision to pick him up after all. His mumblings did little to ease her worries.

_Your head, your innards? Heavens, man, what in the name of the gods __are you blathering about?_

She hoped it was insignificant. Perhaps a nightmare - perhaps a bad dream came to haunt him in his vulnerability. Either way, it drove her to discomfort. It occurred to her yet again that she knew next to nothing of him.

Her instincts screamed. Cautioned and warned against trusting him. Yet at present, she found she had little choice - he would die, and soon, if left to his own devices.

_No! Don't do it, Rei!_

Her hands trembled. She swallowed as she planted a knee firmly into his mattress.

_Don't get too close. He could hurt you!_

She loosened her grip of him, but only for the briefest of moments. Squeezed her eyes firmly shut, then eased herself onto his bed, slipping an arm under his shoulders and pushing him upright. She'd expected more flailing, more fighting - and was not disappointed. He screamed, kicked and fought in rejection as she wrapped her arms firmly about him, pinning his own limbs to his sides. Reached for his hands and having grabbed those, held them firmly within her own, keeping them from tearing at his wounds.

_I am holding a complete stranger, and gods save me if he manages to break free. _

Perhaps the gods were listening, after all; the man jolted violently within her hold for one last time, squirmed briefly, and then, despite his ongoing grunting and whimpering, grew still.

She barely contained the quiet sigh of relief that escaped her, the breath faint and quavering. Offering a wordless prayer to the gods in the heavens, Anarei found herself holding onto him still, fingers wound tightly about his wrists. She didn't trust him to remain still. Not just yet.

_Just what did you do to yourself?_

"Sir?" She braved faintly.

He stiffened in her arms, then whimpered, his voice thick with tears and his words barely distinguishable by the way he mumbled, "Why?"

_You're asking the questions?_

Anarei bit her lip. She wanted nothing more than to slump, crumble into a useless heap. Instead, she remained perfectly upright, and as gently as she dared, moved to flatten his hands against his abdomen. She clamped her own over them immediately - the idea of him breaking loose and hurting himself further made her sick.

"Why, what?"

"Why'd you bother?" His response came straightaway - a genuine question, laced with real confusion and incomprehension. "Why _do_ you?"

_Oh. There it is. I may not know him, but I think that means he's back._

She tightened her grip of him. For some reason, his question made him seem all the more vulnerable, as if he were well and truly alone. It made her sad. She swallowed, blinking as she fought to dispel the lump in her throat. Guilt, guilt and perhaps sorrow - both of which were doubled when she came to realise that she did not, in fact, know the answers to his questions.

"I guess it could be that you look in need of a little kindness." She mumbled after a moment's hesitation. That, at least, she could claim to be partially true.

He grew limp at that. Slumped over, hung his head - and then he sneered. What followed was too weak to be laughter, yet too deliberate to be mere chuckles. And really, it was much, _much_ too miserable to be either.

_Oh, great. We picked up a mad-man._

The sound raised the fine hairs upon her arm, chilling the back of her neck. She wondered briefly if he could feel the beat of her heart against his back - the rhythm of which was surely quickened by panic and fear. The window was open, at the very least, and the door was close enough.

_I can run out if he tries anything. _

Something told her he likely needed more than a hug given for the purpose of forceful restraint - but she wasn't in much of a giving mood. Nonetheless, she squeezed his hands briefly, then muttered, "I am going to let go now. Will you stay calm?"

He nodded - meekly, defeatedly. "-'m tired." Another sneer, a weaker not-laugh-not-chuckle. "I can't run."

Anarei nodded gently, her chin dipping once, and then again onto his shoulder as she did. Slowly and carefully so as to avoid jarring his already-disturbed injuries, she slipped out from behind him, planting her knees onto the hardwood floors. "I'll have to change your bandages."

_Change your bandages, check your stitches... and pray you haven't shredded your insides to ribbons..._

He dropped back onto the pillows as she moved out of the bed, releasing a long, shuddering, almost sob-like sigh. "I'm sorry." His eyelids threaten to flutter shut, as though he were fighting the onset of unconsciousness and losing. "...Sorry."

She stared at him for a moment. Restraints crumbled as she reached out, moving to stroke his forehead. The gesture had always served to comfort her when she was ill.

_I'm a monster. What he needs is someone who cares, and all I want is for him to delay me further. _

She hesitated. Her hand, so close to his forehead, fell away.

_No. I don't know you, and quite frankly, you confuse me._

"It's okay." Her voice came out softer than she'd imagined. "It's okay, don't apologise. Just sleep." A quick glance down towards the blood-soiled bandages told her it was going to be a long afternoon. She sighed quietly, bowing her head. The scarf lay puddled between her knees, crumpled in a heap. "Just sleep."

Somehow assured by her words, the young man's eyelids gave up the fight and fell closed, though he did not appear to have immediately drifted off - instead he shifted, made to turn away and curl up again, only to have his attempt foiled by his re-aggravated wounds, yelped weakly in his failure.

She would have laughed, if it were not quite as pitiful a sight. The scarf was soft in her hand as she bent to pick it up. She held it close for a moment, wondered if she should have it laundered yet again - then decided against it.

"Stay on your back. I'll be able to work better then." Her tone bore traces of stern command.

_Good. I need him to listen, after all._

Instinct told her what to do. Slowly, but surely, she reached out, then wound the scarf carefully about his neck. _Easy, now - wouldn't want him to think you're choking him to death._

The young man lay back, settled into his pillows, and gradually his breathing began to slow and deepen; though the wrinkles between his brows remained, tension etching the lines deeply into his skin.

_There we go._

She watched him as he drifted into his realm of sleep, considered the implications of what she'd just learnt of him. It was clear to her that he was frightened - stricken with terror in his most vulnerable moments, afraid to hurt, and to be hurt.

_Who are you scared of hurting? And more importantly, who's hurt _you_?_

For the third time that day, Anarei found herself painfully aware of just how little she knew. The only difference was that this time, it frightened her, too.

* * *

Leah bit hard down on her bottom lip, stifling a cry as the potion pooled in the open, seeping gash on her knee. The raw flesh seemed to consume the healing liquid, replacing the hole with scar tissue. She took a moment to catch a breath, willed her hand not to shake, and poured some more, watching through the tears in her eyes as the wound knitted itself close, little by little.

As much as it hurt like all hell, it was less cringeworthy than the alternative of sewing her own flesh back together; and more dignifying than asking someone for help, when she _had_, admittedly, gone into the cathedral on her own and essentially brought the trouble upon herself. All the healers were busy with tending to the militiamen and the unfortunate townsfolk who got caught up in the mess of the risen dead, anyway.

The idea of asking the militia for help again when she'd gotten herself bruised and beaten stirred up conflicting feelings within Leah. On the one hand, she was _sure_ that they would be more inclined to help her, if she could evoke their sympathies. On the other, the situation with the undead _was_ getting more desperate, and if she diverted the men's attention to serve her own ends, the consequences could be dire. She knew she would never live it down - nor would she _allow_ herself to live it down - if someone died for her sake alone. She knew her uncle was not as revered as he used to be, or as he _said_ he used to be.

Besides, one of the other consequences was that she would likely become rather unpopular, and Leah rather enjoyed being well-liked about town. It was convenient.

Ten days since her uncle Deckard went missing, and Leah would _really _prefer it if something was done about it before the week was up. As she dabbed the salves onto her now-superficial cut and moved to bind it, her mind trailed off to her memories of the previous morning, when she was idly sipping a mug of tea, while the scullery maids saw to the day's load of washing.

There were a lot of bedsheets; she recalled seeing rows of white wavering in the morning breeze. The damp weather stopped them from drying, but the clouds had subsided for three days now, and the maids could finally take them down from the lines and move onto the next load.

She had been wondering about what she heard from Rumford and the healer from the north, and wondered about it now. A fighter, independent of the militia; a strange, quiet man, who apparently had something to hide.

Now, as Leah moved glumly onto cleaning the scrapes and scratches she had acquired from the futile attempt to brave the cathedral, bits and pieces of the gossips she had heard that morning floated to the surface of her mind.

"_Not even Master Bron had seen him; he hardly ever comes out of his room. But since his son died, the master has had better things to worry about, anyway."_

"_I'm glad I wasn't rostered to wash that morning. It was a right bloodbath, Eudia told me."_

"_Only a few of the girls caught a glimpse of the healers' guest. Said he was old, grey hair and all."_

So the healers were _here_. Their _guest _was here, lodging at the Slaughtered Calf.

"_Really? I heard he was young."_

"_Who knows. Just focus on your washing; that looks like something of quality you've got there."_

She had turned to look at the maids then. The coat was probably dark-blue, perhaps leaning towards a shade of bluish-violet - it was difficult to tell, with the dirt and large patches of dried blood.

Come to think of it, it _was_ an expensive-looking piece of garment - or it _would_ be, if it were clean, with the silver-grey hems and the sleek, elegant, fitted cut.

"_It's got blood on it."_

"_Probably from the same bloodbath."  
_

"_See? He _has_ to be a young man to pull _this_ off."_

"_Just get on with it and wash. You've still got a whole basket waiting."_

She undid the knot in her headscarf and shook out her hair. It felt greasy and grimy. She would have to wash it later.

She hobbled over to the washbasin in the corner, closed her eyes as she splashed cold water over her face. The image of the coat lingered in the back of her eyelids.

And then a brief flash of another image - hiding amidst her uncle's mountain of books, going through each one quickly, pausing only for the illustrations.

She had seen that uniform before.

Leah grinned, heartened. She would look forward to a bit of adventure in the storage room of the town's much-neglected library in the morning.

* * *

**Authors' Notes:**

**Oph: **Disclaimers and ass-covering: Blizzard owns Diablo. We own this fic. I dare you to tell a sedimentologist that beds of rocks aren't interesting. "Greige" is a derivation of the iron sulfide mineral greigite which is in turn named after a scientist by the name of Greig. And bear with us, we'll give the dude a name in the next chapter.

**Em: **Heck yes. I can't wait for it, personally. It's such a lovely name, too! Oph thinks I'm particularly kind to the dude because I have the hots for him, but I swear that's not true.

**Oph: **Blame Em that you had to bear with it at all. If it wasn't for her being so obsessed over his name, I'd have changed it to something more convenient and none of this frustration would be happening at all.

**Em:** It's all because of my personal shipping preferences. It will ALL become clear to you in due time. IN DUE TIME. Until then, might we request reviews? And love?

**Oph: **We know you're watching. I mean reading. It'd be nice to drop us a line, yeah? We're not asking for much. Just some form of acknowledgement, maybe a suggestion or two.

**Em: **You can even make your own conspiracy theories up about what's going on. We like conspiracy theories.

**Oph: **Because it gives me an excuse to eat popcorn, which is an excuse to eat honey. Anyway, hope you've enjoyed this chapter, and we'll see you in the next one!


	5. Chapter 4: Cults and Clans

**Chapter 4**

**Cults and Clans**

* * *

"Pass the sugar."

She glanced up wearily. Deep blue eyes pierced her own, one dark brow raised quizzically into the high, sculpted forehead. Even but an hour past dawn, Strahan was impeccable. "Mm?"

He chuckled dryly, then shook his head, stretching out to retrieve the sugar himself. "Didn't sleep too well?"

She watched as he spooned the brown sweetener into his gruel. The sight did little to inspire her appetite. "I'm fine. Izzy just got up really early today, and she's not very quiet."

_Something about finding bunny rabbits and furry-tailed squirrels in the nearby grain fields._

Anarei managed a grim sort of smile, then straightened, folding her arms atop their wooden table. If food were so easily found, the inhabitants of New Tristram would not be reduced to emergency rations. She didn't tell the young girl, however - a walk was likely good for her.

_And at least I can count on those areas to be safe. There are always soldiers out there._

"You still look exhausted, though." Strahan swallowed, then dipped his spoon into his bowl once more. "Get some more rest if you want. You're not really obliged to be helping these people out, and if needed, I can fill in for you."

Anarei scoffed. It amazed her sometimes, just how cold her brother's mindset could be. "If this is what we think it is, and we're at war, obligation doesn't matter so much as common decency."

She looked up at him, and saw something like amusement in the depths of his eyes. Strahan had never been one to be particularly helpful if he didn't _want _to be.

He scooped up another spoonful of his gruel. Chewed, eyes ever affixed upon her. Then seemed to smirk as he leaned back in his seat, dangling his spoon carelessly between his thumb and index finger. "Are we finally realising that the coming storm isn't an excuse to avoid our destination?"

She shot him a look. "Nobody's _that _heartless."

Strahan let out a quick and short "ha!", then paused. His gaze, previously held, shifted. She fancied she saw him studying something - or someone behind her, then he went quiet and turned his attention once more to his breakfast.

_Strahan struck silent? This, I have got to see._

She'd barely turned around and laid her hand upon the back of her chair before the soft sounds of girlish titterings drifted across the predominantly empty dining hall.

_Ah. That._

The two girls were young, perhaps just a year or two older than her almost-seventeen years. Pretty, she noted, with curling golden hair and wide, girlish smiles - perhaps sisters. Even from several tables away, the source of their amusement was evident.

_Hm. So you think my brother's good-looking, eh? _She watched the younger girl first - pink-cheeked, giggling, occasionally lifting her head to gaze shyly towards them. _Too bad neither of you are his type._

The older girl caught her eye and smirked. Anarei bit her lip, fought back the urge to wave merrily. Somewhere within the recesses of her mind, she knew they thought her a close friend, or perhaps a lover - but certainly not a sister. After all, had they not been mistaken for young lovers and parents all this time? The idea was ludicrous.

She turned to face Strahan once more. He was watching her now, and the slight curl of his lips told her that he knew precisely what she thought.

"Looks like you've got yourself a couple of adoring lady-friends." She beamed at him.

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. "They'd be better off chasing your new friend."

Anarei chuckled, planting her elbows upon their table. "Because you've got enough adoring lady-friends back in Virkove? Taranis _did _mention that you were seen hanging around that girl - what was her name?"

Strahan arched an eyebrow at her, and for a moment, she wondered if he was pondering ways in which to maim and torture their mutual friend back home. Instead, he nudged her still-full bowl forward. "Eat your gruel."

Barely able to contain the quiet snicker that escaped her, Anarei reached for the sugar. "Sehrai. That's her name."

He pushed his bowl of dried berries towards her as she began to stir her own carefully-measured portion into the tasteless gruel. Ever willing to please - smart enough to know that his gesture of generosity and selflessness would inspire some measure of guilt in her. She wrinkled her nose affectionately at him, resolved to drop the subject in her mind, and was rewarded with a rare warm smile.

She ate in silence; he was far too absorbed in the pile of notes by his side to say much more, and she was lost in her own thoughts.

_They think him handsome from so far away - I wonder if they'd even noticed the depths of his eyes._ She smiled to herself, glancing up through her lashes. Focused upon the sheet of parchment held upright before his face, Strahan took no note of her watching him. _Necromancers' eyes._

She bit into the cranberry hidden away within her mouthful of gruel. It was bitter - bitter as the day she'd first met him seven years ago. He'd called her fat. She'd called him a pompous peacock.

They didn't warm to each other until months past their initial handshake. She bit back a chuckle as she spooned up another mouthful of breakfast. In retrospect, she _had _been fat. And he _had _been a pompous peacock.

_And yet here we are, my brother. Here we are on this path together, family despite the wrongdoings of your bloodkin against mine. The sins of your father and those of your brother - you bear them upon your shoulders, and yet you need not._

Strahan's brow was furrowed as he picked up a second sheet of parchment, scanning over its contents. While at work, he was usually deaf and blind to the rest of the world. She called it his impeccable focus. He was rarely, if at all, fazed.

She glanced down into her near-emptied bowl. There was about a spoon or two left, but she found herself no longer hungry.

_Wasting food during a siege? Unheard of. _With a sigh, she scooped up the remainder of her food. Chewed. Swallowed. Then washed it all down with a gulp of water. She had barely had the time to consider her plans for the day, however, before the cries rang loud. In the rapidly-rising din beyond the doors of the inn, Anarei found she could hear nothing of note.

Strahan lifted his gaze, frowning, as if irritated at having his concentration broken. He glanced about as the current inhabitants of the dining hall dashed to the windows, craning their necks in efforts to seek out the source of the chaos. Somewhere, a bell began to chime, the shrill tinkles echoing through the streets.

He got to his feet just as the doors to the inn burst open. The soldier was panting, red-faced and obviously rendered near speechless in his terror.

It took half a minute for him to calm down - then he sputtered, "Cultists - the cultists are here!"

The wooden chair fell back with a crash as she leapt to her feet. Panic surged within her, echoed within the usually-calm eyes of her brother. His lips fell open - then he was reaching for her shoulders, fingers digging into the flesh of her arms even as he held her close against the stampede of people rushing for the exit. She watched as his sheets of parchment drifted in the air, shredded to pieces as easily as the calm had been but moments ago.

Strahan's voice was harder than usual as he released her shoulders. The word that hung upon his lips resounded within her mind. It was but a whisper from him, but it screamed, echoed and cried out to her. Drained the strength from her legs and brought a lump to her throat.

_Isobel._

"Get your sister." He shoved her towards the door. She did not need telling twice. Cursing, she turned on her heels, grabbed a hold of her skirts, and without any care save the safety of her sister, sprinted out of the inn.

* * *

_Cultists_, they screamed. The cultists were in New Tristram, tearing through houses, robbing and raping, pillaging and plundering, murdering their inhabitants and setting them alight.

He saw them from the moment they picked a passing man to be their first victim. Saw the way the arm came down - most likely laden with a weapon of some sort - and the way the man's light of life winked out almost instantly.

Now his mind's eye watched as men and women who lodged at the inn fought through the cultists, some failing, some succeeding; some succeeding in saving themselves but left their companions and family behind to be slaughtered, some failing in getting out alive but preserved their loved ones. People were escaping through the windows on the first level of rooms, while those on the second level were more hesitant. A good few tried to fight their way out through the inn. So far, only two had managed to get out alive.

The ground floor was largely vacated of travellers - living ones, anyway. The barkeep had been amongst the first to run away, a young woman and a child in tow. His mind had lost track of them some time ago.

Despite the fear, chaos and confusion outside, the young man felt strangely calm within his own room, in his own bed. The elder two of his caretakers were out - ran out at the first sound of alarm, likely fulfilling their duties as guardians and healers - when the cultists invaded. Little Miss Isobel had been playing in the nearby fields, and had since found herself to safety with several militiamen.

_Maybe this is for the best. This way, I won't trouble anyone anymore. _

It'd be quick, too. He would die nameless, hopefully leave a corpse so mangled and mutilated they wouldn't ever know what happened to him.

The cultists had finished clearing the first level of rooms, and appeared to him to be exchanging findings with each other. They would soon move onto the next floor, where some children and elderly were trapped in their rooms, along with several larger families.

He would not be moved by the fear he saw within them. The pattern was distinct - their bodies were readying themselves to make one last desperate attempt to survive, yet it was the same body, same mind, that held them back, trapped them in their inaction.

It was just too familiar.

He closed his eyes; as expected, the lights and colours only became more vivid against the deep, dark backdrop of his mind. He would relish in this sight, before he closed his mind's eye as well.

_Peridot._

He had noted before that it had found the flowery yellow - the elder sister had found the younger. Yet it didn't stop there, but instead, was fighting its way back into the inn.

Towards _him_.

_Oh, gods in the high heavens._

He was suddenly made painfully aware of the carnage taking place in the room just below him. And the room next to him, and the one on the other side.

The cries were so damn _loud_.

Grunting, he threw the sheets off his legs and swung them over the edge of the blanket. His boots - heavy, enforced with hard leather and steel - were by his bedside, and with a brief moment of dread, he braced himself for their weight and pulled them on, his fingers lacing and strapping and buckling in practiced movements.

His knives, too. He strapped them onto his thighs and tightened the belts, patted them sharply to check that they were accessible and in the right position, before he tugged on his cloak and slipped out of his room, staying within the shadowed corridor. The frail, but frantic scream of an old woman resounded, and he flinched. They were only getting closer.

He knocked on the door of a room on the opposite side of the walkway, knowing there to be an able-bodied man inside. "Open up," he spoke up in a hushed tone, hoping that the occupants could hear him as his hand adjusted his hood, pulling it lower on his forehead. "I'm not a cultist. You need to get out of here."

No response. His other sight saw that the man had reached for a lamp, ready to crack his head open should he enter by force.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small tool, fashioned out of a needle and several hairpins that he had acquired from the maids, and a butter-knife that he had swiped. After the threat of being chained to bed, he could never be too sure that Anarei wouldn't lock him in. He presumed that this door's lock was not much different from his own.

It wasn't. He nudged the door open, then stepped back as the lamp missed him. He took a grip of the man's wrist before it could come up and reattempt cracking his head open.

"I need your help," he said quietly, but sternly, meeting the other man's eye for but a moment. He was but an adolescent. Well-dressed; probably rich, perhaps the sheltered son of a merchant. A young woman, who the young man assumed to be his lover, stood shivering on the far side of the room.

No time for trivial considerations. "I need you to help me block off the stairs at the landing." He ushered the couple out of the door, and proceeded to knock on the door of another room. "Do it any way you can. Use the furniture, the shelves - hey, come on!" The door opened this time; an old woman peered out, likely having heard the conversation.

He turned back to look at the well-dressed youth, ushering the elderly woman out of her room with urgent gesticulations of a hand as he growled at the well-dressed youth, "Sir, please help. Block the stairs first - hell, set it alight, if you want to fight fire with fire." He turned back to look at the well-dressed youth. "Then get the people out of their rooms. Gather in mine - room number three-fifteen, and we'll all escape through the window."

"What about the people downstairs?" Asked the well-dressed youth, his voice hitching with terror as the cackling from the cultists and the cries from the victims resounded from beneath. "Aren't we blocking _them_ off, too?"

_I _really_ don't need this kind of drivel right now. _"Who d'you think will be faster, the cultists or the people who _failed_ to escape all this time?" He snarled, narrowed his eyes and glared at the well-dressed youth as best he could, peering out from under his hood as he almost spat out his command. "_Come_." He glanced over at the elderly woman. "You too, madam. Get more people to help; there's still almost a dozen people trapped on this floor."

Once he was satisfied that his new allies were doing their jobs, he made towards the landing. The cultists were already on their way up - just two. Perhaps as scouts while the rest cleared the floor below.

_Two corpses wouldn't make a bad start to a roadblock. _

The young man unsheathed the weapon upon his right thigh, feeling the way the handle sat snugly in his hand, examining, for but a second, the way the finely-honed blade curved smoothly over his knuckles, like an elegant, slender, peculiarly-elongated hand-axe.

It felt so _long_ since he had last used it.

He took the first cultist by surprise, his knife easily gliding through her throat. It drew a smooth arc in the air, half of it rendered visible by the trail of bright red, before some of that red splattered onto the front of his cloak.

The wound on his abdomen, as well as the adjacent incision made by the healers to repair his insides, throbbed hotly with his movement. He clenched his jaw as he shot forward, side-stepped the other cultist's dagger to plant his own blade into his assailant's chest. He tugged his weapon back as the corrupted man fell.

Now more people were coming towards him. He nudged the bodies with his foot before deciding that was too much of a strain, and stepped aside to pull his hood back into place as he made way for the people. Five men and two women helped to push a shelf towards the top of the stairs, then backed it with a desk and some chairs and bedside tables, until it was braced against the wall.

They retreated back to the young man's room thereafter. A quick headcount told him there were twelve people - or thirteen? He wasn't sure if he'd counted himself. "Through the window." He turned around and closed the door. "Someone help me block this, too."

Two of the men who had previously assisted with blocking the stairs moved his wardrobe against the door, while a portly lady with a shrill voice wailed, "From _this_ high up?"

The young man had to bite back a curse. "The bed-sheets and curtains." He fell into his chair, his injuries still aching from the recent fights, however short-lived they had been. "I trust that you know how to knot?"

He had to check that the knots were secure, anyway, before the group lowered themselves to safety, one by one, while the sounds of the blockage being cleared and doors being forced open echoed through the corridor. Even so, the young man felt the compulsion to cut something with the bloody knife in his hand every time one of the people let out an unnecessarily loud exclamation of fear.

"Are you coming, sir?"

He turned to regard what looked to be a middle-aged merchant - or rather, a man with a hand in some kind of business involving big, dirty coinage; his robes of rich colours and extravagant designs failing to draw the young man's attention from his missing fingers.

He shifted his gaze back to the door, just as the wardrobe shook. Likely the cultists were trying to knock down the door - or the wall, by how hard they seemed to be trying. "I'm too sore to climb down like that."

"So you'll die here?" The tone was pleasantly mild. He appreciated the relief from the screaming and shouting.

The wardrobe shook again, starting to topple before falling back into place with a dull _thump_. "I have to meet someone out at the front."

"Suit yourself."

The young man waited. Miss Anarei had entered the inn, but had yet to move through to the bottom of the stairs. A good few cultists were gathered outside his room now, a bulkier-looking one ramming his shoulder into and kicking at the door.

He stood. Unsheathed the blade upon his left thigh as he strode over to the side of the door where he remembered the hinges were, and leaned back against the wall, waiting for the enemy to break through.

Another forceful ram; the wardrobe almost toppled over, and the top hinge buckled and warped.

He checked his footing, and lifted his left leg a little, flexing his ankle and wriggling his toes inside his boot. _This is going to hurt. _

The wall shook. The wardrobe fell over. The door broke off its hinges.

He gritted his teeth and stamped his foot into the door, slamming it shut again before it exploded, along with the cultist who stood behind it.

* * *

_Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods - so many dead. So many dying._

New Tristram burned. Rooftops and barns of wood set alight, the town looked no different from its predecessor, the old ruins of which still stood as a reminder of its gory past. Bodies lay strewn about blood-slicked stones - villagers, and precious few golden-robed cultists. She scowled, gripping Isobel's wrist harder, felt a pang as she heard the girl's faint sob of helpless fright.

"It's okay." Anarei barely believed it herself. "It's okay, Iz, don't worry. We'll be fine."

For her part, the young girl had attempted, and had mostly succeeded in being brave. Anarei had found her in a crouch between some boulders, hidden away amidst curtains of tall, wind-blown grain stalks. Her small, bloodstained hands were trembling; she had been kneeling over a soldier, resolutely pressing down upon a seeping chest wound.

She had watched him die, and all those around him. Too frightened to move, she had held on doggedly, even as the soldiers' lives had bled into the earth about her.

Anarei swallowed, gripping the girl's hand harder. It occurred to her, even then, that she should thank the gods her sister had been spared - small enough to hide, to avoid the eyes of the cultists who sought to rape, to murder, to pillage and to burn.

_No time to think on that now. Think about that later. At the present, you have to get back to Strahan - get back to your new friend, too. Gods, I hope he made it out..._

A flash of bright red dragged her back into the present. _Cultist. _She gnashed her teeth together, found herself angry - furious with him and all he had chosen to represent.

_It's not just man against demon. Not any more._

She shoved her sister behind her, crying out for her to watch against other would-be attackers. The swords she held were lighter than those she were used to - her own were heavy, hilted with black steel from, she had been told, the heart of Arreat itself. But those were locked in her own room, unavailable to her - and she would need weapons, if they were going to survive the ordeal.

Isobel had sobbed as she'd removed the swords from the bodies of the fallen soldiers in the fields. They'd barely had time to draw them, before the cultists had struck.

She caught the reflections in the polished steel of the swords. Fire. Steel. Crimson - so much crimson. The cultist before her raised his hands, fingers clenched in the manner of claws. She took a deep breath, swallowing as the wispy, smoke-like tendrils began to curl about his fingertips. As if he were coaxing flames from damp wood, the cultist drew forth the inky black fumes. She allowed herself a brief second to remember her aunt; a mage with a wealth of power, she, too, had been a master of the arts.

_Oh, gods. He wants us. I have to get Izzy out of here. I have to get back to the inn._

The cultist leered - and in the seconds that followed, lobbed ball after crackling ball of fire towards her. She ducked aside, dragging Isobel along, then released her hold of the girl to dart forward, sword-tip poised to strike. Her opponent raised his hand, and she caught sight of the tendrils yet again as he made to retaliate.

_Just like training with uncle and grand-da. _She swallowed, reversed the sword in her left hand. The steel was cold against her forearm, the icy chill of a death soon-dealt seeping even through the fabric of her sleeve. Her right hand moved to push the cultist's out of the way, sending her elbow into his shoulder; at the same time, the tip of her sword plunged straight through his throat.

_Except in training, no one dies._

She bit back a sob as he crumpled onto the ground, a mess of gurgling, dying man. Isobel stood rooted where she had been ushered, eyes widened. The elder reached to the younger, imploring, begging - _surely she knew I had to do it._

Her voice was caught in her throat as another called out. "Anarei, Izzy!"

_Strahan. Oh, thank the gods in the heavens._

Isobel ran to her brother, buried her face into his stomach. She watched on, the pit of her stomach ablaze with guilt and worry, and for a moment or two, wondered if she had perhaps not scarred the young girl further.

Then Isobel gasped, lifting her face, and whispered, ever so faintly, "He wanted to kill us, and Rei had to stop him. Strahan, what's going _on_?"

The shrill cadence of that final word gripped her throat and squeezed, hard. Her grip of the borrowed swords tightened, and before she knew it, she had joined her siblings, sandwiching the girl between herself and their brother. Anarei glanced up at Strahan's face and saw the same in his eyes.

_Protect Isobel, keep her safe._

"We have to get out of here." Strahan grunted. He'd obviously done his share of fighting - a wide gash ran down the length of his arm, which he hid from Isobel's sight. "I've got the horses."

Anarei swallowed. "They blocked the gates, the cultists. They blocked the gates, Master Bron told me when he ran... past..."

_Oh, gods. I've forgotten something. I've forgotten _him_._

The words died out. Strahan had obviously realised the source of her newfound horror, lifting his head and peering towards the inn they had so hastily vacated. "Leave him, Rei, there's no time."

She shoved Isobel deeper into his arms, ignoring the way the younger girl clutched at her sleeves. "He's under our care, and he's hurt. He'd never make it alone."

"Exactly. Chances are he's _already _dead if he's not out of there. Ana -"

She heard him cry out, grope for her as she broke away - his fingers barely scratched the sleeve of her gown, tearing away the fabric. Had it been sliced at, burnt? She had not noticed. For a moment or two, she wondered why she was risking herself for him, for this stranger - then she saw the ruin that had become their lodgings, and her mind went blank.

The main doors of the inn had been broken through, splintered wood lying scattered upon the floor. Bodies all around, bloodied, broken, burnt. She sprinted past the entrance hall, deaf to the sounds of hellhounds gnawing upon the corpses of the dead. Her footsteps pounded upon the wooden stairs as she leapt from step to step.

_Please don't be dead. Please don't be dead. Please, by all the gods, do not be dead._

"Miss Anarei!"

For a long moment, the voice that called out was unfamiliar - hard and stern, despite its breathlessness. Then a dark blur tumbled down the stairs, hitting the landing with a dull _thump_ and coming to a stop as a bundle of brown cloth atop the wide-eyed, open-mouthed body of a cultist.

The bundle groaned, shook sharply, and the brown hood fell back to reveal a head of messy hair. She recognised the distinctive shade straightaway.

She yelped - or did she shriek? "Gods! You're alive!" _How?_

The young man groaned again, and struggled to stand, reaching for the banister for support.

"Somehow..." He looked up at her; a small gash on his forehead was trickling blood into his left eye, and his cloak was cut and burnt through in several places.

Something clicked inside of her. She made towards him, vaguely aware of how hard she was panting, and how her hands trembled as she reached to grasp his shoulders in a feeble attempt to steady him.

_He's alive._

Somehow, he said. There was no time, no time to question. She bent close to him. "We have to get out of here."

He nodded curtly and wordlessly, bringing up his hand - the fingers were speckled with blood - to pull his hood back on, and made to move down the stairs, his shoulder brushing against hers in a not-so-subtle gesture of ushering her forward.

_I don't understand. How did he get out of there?_

She swallowed hard. Her heart pounded, pounded against her chest and throat. _Don't miss a step. You can think on this later - but you have to survive the present to do that._

He nudged her again, his shoulder pressing briefly against her shoulder-blade. Evidently, he was content with letting her lead the way. Just as well; she knew the situation outside better than he did.

They were just about to step out of the inn and into the smoke-reddened sunlight, when an urgent, gruff voice bellowed close-by.

"LEAH, WATCH OUT!"

There was a loud cry of alarm, and for a second she wondered why her voice sounded so cracked. Then she realised the cry came from _behind_ her.

The young man's eyes were gaping in shock and his face was bloodless, though he seemed to relax somewhat as he exhaled sharply. Anarei quirked a slender brow at her new companion.

"What was -"

This time, she _did _cry out as the young man dug his fingers into her upper arm and yanked her back roughly, back into the shadow of the inn. She watched, gripping onto his forearm to steady herself, as something shot past where her head had been just a moment ago. It pummelled into a post, its impact with the thick column issuing forth a sharp _snap_.

The crackling burgundy faded, leaving an off-white spear embedded within the chipped and splintered wood.

Her grip of his hand tightened - consciously or not; she found she couldn't care at the moment. She glanced up at him, panting - now that they had found the time and necessity to pause, her exhaustion from the sprint made itself known. "_How_ did you know?"

"Same way I knew you were coming back to get me." His expression was blank, held still and stiff by his tension, but he appeared to have allowed a hint of warmth into his voice. He nodded ahead, trying to draw her attention back to the outside. "Let's worry about it _after_ we're done here. Catch your breath, ready your weapons, and refocus."

She swallowed, watching as the offending spear began to crumble into dust, then turned to face him, hoping her bare smile conveyed what meager thanks she could offer in the moment. Straightening, she tightened her grip of the borrowed swords, then turned to peer outside.

It was quiet.

_Too _quiet.

The shriek that pierced the air resounded deep within her, and for that moment, she swore her soul had split itself in half. Propriety be damned - she could've sworn she'd shoved roughly past her companion, the ground pounding beneath the soles of her feet as she ran. Screaming, shrieking, crying out as if her life depended on it.

_Izzy. That was Izzy._

Deafening silence was broken only by the sounds of her companion on her heels - unlike her, he obviously had difficulties making haste. Her head swam as she darted through the streets. Had she left them that far behind?

_And if they'd gotten Izzy, does that mean they'd gotten Strahan too? Oh, guardians, please no._

Her knees buckled just as she rounded the final corner; almost crumbling into the wall by her side, she gasped for breath, one sword falling onto the ground with a metallic _clang_ as her hand scraped against the rough brick. She felt her palm sting, the warmth of blood trickling down her wrist. She bit back another sob, but barely contained the strangled cry that escaped her.

"IZZY!"

Isobel lay upon the ground, eyes wide in unspoken terror. One hand clutched at her throat, scratching the skin there, whilst the other dug heavily into her abdomen. Her eyes were wide - begging, imploring to be released of torment. So little. She was so little.

"No, Izzy!" Anarei ran for her sister, falling onto the knees by Isobel's side, then reached to grasp her wrists, holding them down. The gesture felt strangely familiar, though she found she could not place it. "It's okay -" She rasped. Hazel eyes met bright blue, both stricken with terror. "It's okay."

She became aware that Strahan was standing behind them. _Help her. _Her mind screamed, swore. _HELP HER!_

When at last she found the strength to tear her gaze from her sister, she saw Strahan recoil. Flinched, as she had never seen him flinch before. Bewildered, she followed his gaze, seeking the source of his vexation, then inhaled at the sight of the nearby cultist.

_No, not a cultist. _She growled, suddenly protective. Her hands clenched into fists, tightening about Isobel's slender wrists. The man-who-was-not-a-cultist sneered, chuckled, then jerked his head towards the three of them. In the smoky shadows cast by the burning town, she saw his eyes gleam, aqua-blue.

_Strahan's eyes - necromancers' eyes._

The young man finally caught up, and straightaway, fell to his knees beside Isobel, his hood swept off his head by the motion. He planted his hands on the little girl's shoulders, and grunted quietly, but nonetheless angrily before calling out, "Mister Strahan, can you help her?"

Strahan stood rooted to the ground, his own eyes widened to mirror shock. He was motionless, stricken so by the sight of one she knew to be his brother.

_By blood only, you fool._ Anarei cried out desperately. "Strahan, HELP HER!" Her voice escalated into a shriek. "HELP YOUR SISTER, DAMN IT!"

She saw the subtle movement of his fingers. Then, as the source of his pain laughed, disappeared behind the veil of smoke, he turned his eyes upon the scene, suddenly aware. Yet he was not himself.

_Oh, gods, he can't help her. No, no - NO!_

"Miss Anarei..." The voice was soft, though it cut through the screaming in her ears, in her head. "How much do you trust me with your sister's life?"

She did a double take, and her voice came out more ragged than she'd thought it would. "_What?_" Subconsciously, she reached to Strahan, grabbed his hand and yanked hard. _I need you. Izzy needs you._

But he was silent.

The young man frowned, then his voice deepened and hardened. "Hold her still." He bit his lip, and shifted his hands such that one lay over Isobel's forehead, the other over her midsection. Then he closed his eyes.

She wanted to scream, _I don't trust you. Don't touch my sister! _But something held her back.

Somewhere within the back of her mind, she was vaguely reminded of an instance where her da had performed one such procedure. He'd shut his eyes in much the same manner. Worked the same way. But he was her father, and she trusted _him_.

_You don't have much of a choice now, either. _She bit back a sob, fingers tightening about Isobel once again. She thought she saw the young girl's skin, dyed ivory from her ordeal, redden beneath her grip. _He saved you earlier. He won't hurt Izzy._

His frown deepened; his lips parted, revealing his gritted teeth. Still, the young man kept his eyes closed, even as his own complexion grew paler, as though in substitution for Isobel's improved colour.

She lost count of the minutes as he worked. Strahan remained standing, and she found little strength in mind and body to deal with him at present. Her sister - _their _sister, took precedence.

_Please don't let her die. _Anarei lifted her gaze, stared intently at the young man. She wondered if he could hear her wordless plea.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he sighed and slid his hands off of Isobel, rocked back to sit on his haunches. His eyelids lifted partway as he opened his mouth in an attempt to speak, choked and coughed, before attempting once more and this time, succeeding. "You'll have to get an able healer to take it from here."

She took a deep breath, gulping in the stifling air. She winced - but then she realised Isobel's eyes were open. "Izzy."

The girl managed a weak smile, though she turned green immediately after, choking back a sob. Anarei inhaled sharply, reaching out.

Strahan cut her off. Bending at the knees, and gently, oh-so-gently, he slipped his arms about Isobel's little frame; Anarei thought she saw him tremble as he pressed his lips to the side of the girl's temple, murmuring some faint words of encouragement.

As he got to his feet and turned away, striding towards the remains of their inn, Anarei straightened to glance about, swallowing hard. The town's precious few survivors were surfacing from beneath hiding holes and lockers - old men, women, children and militiamen who had chosen flight instead of fight. All bore terror upon their faces - more than half had shed tears.

_They're gone. The cultists are gone._

She blinked several times, turning misted eyes upon her companion. Her voice cracked a touch beneath the strain, but she felt it only right to thank him - or at least try. "Sir... you saved my sister."

He bowed his head, reached a hand up to hold it as he swayed, planting his free hand upon the ground in an attempt to steady himself.

"Lear."

_What?_

Anarei reached out and gripped his shoulder to help him - then winced as she once again felt the sting and saw the blood staining his sleeve. "What?"

"- 's what I'm called," he breathed, his voice fading. "Lear, Miss 'narei." He leaned heavily onto her hand, heedless - if not completely ignorant - of her blood staining his sleeve, and only a moment later, fell at her feet as his consciousness fled him.

* * *

**Authors' Notes:**

**Em:** Another chapter, another round of good ol' honest bashing-up-demons. Before we go about prattling, here's what you need to know: WE DO NOT OWN THE DIABLO SERIES. BLIZZARD DOES. What we DO own, however, are all the kids. Named and unnamed. Particularly now that we've named Mr. Mysterious Man.

**Oph: **Told you we needed a legitimate reason to be difficult. No, really. He was named before there was even news of Diablo III coming out. Imagine the shock when we found out about Leah.

**Em:** Hooooo boy. I believe my initial reaction included a string of gibberish that I can no longer remember. You may all also notice that this is where we begin (or IS IT?) to deviate from canon more obviously. Enjoy the ride. We certainly do.

**Oph: **Rest assured. We're going to arrive at Diablo, and we ARE going through all the acts. Eventually. Also, this is likely the most action-packed chapter thus far, and if you have any questions and if you reckon we're not great at making something clear, please let us know.

**Em: **In the form of reviews. Speaking of reviews, we'd like to thank **Vonsaire** and **Glint** for reviewing! We're definitely not kidding when we say we (or at least I did) giggled and danced and jumped around a bit with joy.

**Oph: **If you like this read, want us to continue and write more, and/or have any opinions, suggestions, please let us know! We'd really love to hear from you, and really, reviews give us a kick in churning out these chapters ASAP.

**Em: **Exactly. I mean, we've been known to churn out whole chapters in, what, 24-36 hours? Anyway! We hope you've enjoyed this one, and we'll look forward to hearing from the lot of you! Until then, cheers!


	6. Chapter 5: An Inappropriate Proposition

**Chapter 5**

**An Inappropriate Proposition**

* * *

The night was still; there was no wind, and so the smoke lingered about the town of New Tristram, thick and stifling, corrupting the very air breathed by its people. Lear sat before the fireplace in the smaller, less comfortable lodging of the Rosethorn Riffle, favouring a chair instead of the cushioned couches. Left unwashed for years, one could never know what was _on_ those couches.

He gave his knife a wipe and a quick polish. The rest of the maintenance would have to wait - since he woke in the evening, his mind had been on edge, fidgeting and refusing to rest any longer despite the exhaustion of his body; and while he could not sleep, he didn't think he could muster up enough concentration to work the whetstone without damaging his weapons or his hands.

The fire burnt low upon logs that were turning pale. It was a comfortable ambience. In the depths of the night, the inn was quiet - the town was sleeping off the traumatic experience of the day.

But sleep came easier for some inhabitants than others. "Can't sleep, Miss Anarei?"

She seemed to pause in her steps, evidently unaware that he had been in the room at all. The weariness in her was prominent, despite the fact that she stood behind him - her voice was apologetic, low. "Just Anarei, sir. Or Rei. I think we've been through enough together to address each other on a given-name basis. But I'm sorry if I've disturbed you."

He shook his head, the movement inhibited by the aching muscles of his neck and shoulders. He really _had_ gotten unfit over these past weeks spent lying around. "You haven't." He returned his weapon to its sheath, set it on the small coffee table beside him, and moved to unsheathe its twin. "Are you feeling unwell?"

Anarei chuckled wryly, but the melancholic tone of her voice failed to escape him. Nonetheless, she made her way to the window, settling upon the narrow seat built against the wall, turning to gaze into the foggy street outside. "Just can't sleep. What about you?"

He couldn't help but to snort dryly at that; speak about making small talk. "Makes two of us. I'd slept for much too long today already, anyway." His slid out his knife, the dried blood upon it catching on the inside of sheathe, making the motion not as smooth as he'd have liked. "You should rest, though, Anarei. You've been fixing people all day."

"I'm fine." She muttered. A soft thump told him she'd leaned back into the windowsill, and winced a touch as her head had collided with the wood. Her voice nonetheless warmed, the peridot softening - while it was blazing that morning, it was now but an ebbing flame, not unlike the one in the fireplace. "You should be resting too, Lear." The use of his name was deliberate, as if she had marked the moment.

"I think I've had too much excitement for one day." He grinned faintly, sadly, sardonically. Excitement one could do without, surely.

_Or could you? You liked that, didn't you? Enjoyed being back in action again? Admit it. _

He dismissed the accusation. "How are Mister Strahan and Miss Isobel? And yourself? I don't suppose anyone got away from this ordeal unscathed."

She sat in silence for a moment or two, releasing a long, heavy breath. "She's better. He's getting over the shock from seeing his brother try to flay us all alive." Her voice had somehow taken on a clipped and curt quality, as if she fought to control her sentiments towards the matter. It did not, however, sound like fear - not even anxiety. If anything, she sounded _annoyed_. "They'll both be fine in time."

Brother against brother - it sounded about right.

_So many cases of betrayal as of late, hmm? _

"That's good to hear." He scratched at a stubborn spot of blood on his knife with his nail behind the rag. "You're fine, too? The cultists didn't trouble you too much when you were fighting your way through them?"

"Mm." The idle response was more a grunt than anything else.

A small gust of wind stirred in the streets; he felt the fine flakes of ash as they brushed against his skin, and shuddered involuntarily. Attributing his reflexive response to the chilly night, he shifted his seat closer to the dying fire, and did up the buttons - so cleverly hidden within the seam between the hem and the lining - of his coat. Time for even more small talk. "It's getting a bit cold, isn't it?"

"I'm from Virkove." She sounded amused, though the sounds of shifting fabric caused a faint rustling where the hems of her heavy night-cloak brushed against the wooden floors. "It's _always _cold there."

Despite her declared affinity to the cold, however, Anarei made her way to his side; her face, perhaps paler than he remembered, warming to a faint pink by the fire's glow. She looked at him for a moment, studying his face, then sank onto a nearby chair, her hands - one bandaged, coming to rest upon her lap. "Have you ever been there?"

Lear tried to recall a memory of the chill that he knew was in him somewhere, but failed in the same way he had failed countless times before. "Not that I can remember." He answered honestly as he picked up a piece of fine, lint-free cloth to polish his weapon. "Do you miss home?"

She leaned back in her chair as she watched him, eyes trailing the movements of his working hands as if transfixed. "A little." The admittance was quietly spoken. "I miss my family, and the people closest to me." Her voice darkened a touch. "...and, I guess, tasting this coming storm makes me miss the past. What _was_."

Family. He wondered how his Lord and Lady were doing, how his Lady Chryse was doing. He remembered the letter she had sent, left un-replied, and felt a pang in his chest. He pushed it down, but not before a grimace had set itself into his features. "This storm's been brewing for a while now. Surely you northern folks would be _that_ much more astute to it, having been the last stand against the enemy in the previous war."

Anarei wrinkled her nose a touch, lifting her head. Her eyes settled upon his - half-lidded, the hazel was riddled with exhaustion. "Then it's understandable we'd rather _not _take the last stand yet again, isn't it?" Her jaw tensed briefly, then she turned away, shutting her eyes with a short sigh. "At any rate, that's a conversation for whatever war council they assemble to deal with whatever war comes. I'll do what I do - what I'm _allowed _to do under the circumstances."

This was a vivacious sort of lady. A different flavour to Lady Chryse, surely, but similar enough - in age and liveliness. "So you want to _act_ - to make a difference, huh?" He wiped over his knife one last time, running the cloth smoothly over the curve of the blade. "You're still young, Anarei. It's not necessarily a good thing to grow up too quickly. There are enough people who get forced into facing troubles beyond their age."

She smiled a little, her lips curled somewhat lopsidedly. "What happens when all you can do to go back to times of peace... is to fight?" The fingers of her un-bandaged hand thumbed the thick linens binding the other. "I just want to know I'm not wasting my days away while the people I love are fighting tooth and nail for survival. People get hurt every day, and people die." She looked up. "_You_ almost did - _could _have, this morning. We _all _could have."

He sheathed his knife with a smooth, but sharp scrape. Somehow, she was making him feel a little impatient, and while he resisted the urge to roll his eyes, he mused that the sentiment might have come through his tone. "People can die at _any _moment, Anarei." He put his weapon with its twin and leaned back in the chair; his old injuries, as well as several fresher cuts and burns smarted faintly. "I'll propose another question in response to yours - what happens in times of peace, when all you can do is fight?"

Anarei smoothed down the fabric of her cloak. Her brow furrowed, but only for a moment as she considered. The smile remained, however faint, and as she lifted her eyes to his once again, he thought he saw something like bitterness within their depths. "Is it still considered peace if people are harbouring desires to fight? People do other things in times of peace, Lear. Build lives, plant fields, fill homes - simple things that have nothing at all to do with war."

Lear considered this, and felt that wretched impatience boiling again. He shrugged as casually as he could manage with his sore shoulders. "I grew up in relative peace, Anarei, faraway from your war-torn homeland. Yet I can't recall a time when this... storm wasn't looming somewhere on the horizon." He felt a smile coming onto his lips, felt better now that the impatience had simmered down. "Is it possible, then... that the desire to fight doesn't come from pressures from outside, but is instead a desire from within?"

Her eyes flickered briefly down to his abdomen, the faint smile dissipating as she regarded the area - she'd changed the bandages earlier, checked that the stitches had held throughout the morning's ordeal, replaced those that hadn't. "Is that how _you _feel?"

"I'm only throwing the idea out there." He let his eyes drift shut. They could rest while his other sight kept watch. "Obviously, right at _this_ moment, I'd much rather it be peaceful. But we're fickle beings, aren't we? We get bored easily, no?"

"Some of us." She remarked quietly. "Others are content to live simple lives free of strife."

"You can't deny it, Anarei." He opened his eye, peered towards her, knowing that his next words would undoubtedly elicit some form of interesting response from her - she was too good-natured to be used to this kind of thing. "_You_ don't really know a life completely free of strife, so you can't judge, can you, sword-maiden?"

Anarei scoffed faintly at his address, turning her head away as her uninjured hand tightened about the other. It was an amusing enough response. "One can hope. Either way, I think we can agree that peace isn't an option at the moment - whether it's peace amongst mankind, or peace between mankind and everything else." She gritted her teeth, her frown deepening. _There it was. _He _had _struck a nerve. "It's not quite as black and white anymore, is it? You saw what happened this morning. Man killing man. _Man_, not demon."

"You know that didn't happen just this morning, yes?" He felt smug; realised he probably looked it, too, and checked that his facial expression didn't reveal too much. "It happens all the time, in times of peace and war, abundance and scarcity... because man always wants _more_ - power, possessions, security. And in attaining them, he is willing to deprive others of them."

She narrowed her eyes a little as she regarded him. Calm as before, yet something seemed to stir within her - dissent, or perhaps displeasure at his assessment of her understanding. "One man killing another is murder. Many men killing many others is war. Which have _you_ seen, Lear?" The muscles of her cheeks tensed, her voice taking on a grim strain. "I know the difference - don't think I don't. I've seen war, and I've seen more broken bodies than you would ever care to imagine. But I am hopeful, and I intend to remain so. Men are capable of great evil, but I'm certain even you can't disparage that we are also capable of great kindness."

Okay. _He_ couldn't really deny _that_, neither. He would let her win on that point. He straightened, and looked Anarei in the eyes as he tried for a sincere nod. "Fair enough... I suppose none other than _you_ have demonstrated that, hmm?" He managed a weak smile - couldn't feel it in the muscles around his eyes, but it'd have to do for now. "Thanks for coming back."

Anarei shrugged helplessly. Her own smile was equally weak. "You don't have to thank me. You saved my sister - saved _me_." She hesitated briefly, her brow twitching as if she'd only just remembered something. The tone of her question thereafter retained a touch of wariness, a hint of careful concern, though genuine confusion etched itself into her face. "How _did _you get out of there? You said... you _knew _I was coming."

Oh, _this_ was a much more impersonal and comfortable conversational topic. "You are familiar with the concept of magical energy, yes? Believed to be sourced from the unified powers of angels and demons, and allows mere human beings to do things beyond the restraints of their merely-physical bodies?"

She dipped her head in a gentle nod, straightening and leaning forward, clearly attentive.

"Well, it still needs to be _contained_ by the body." Lear snorted softly. Folklore tends to make things so much more romantic than they are. "As it turns out, it's more of a direct manifestation of one's life-energy - life-force, will-power, whatever you want to call it. Mages are simply more aware of it, and have more control over it, but _everyone_'s born with it, and everyone hones it - nurtures it, to various degrees, whether they dabble in magic or not. Their life-energy becomes their own, with its distinctive characteristics.

"People have various names for this... some name it after the kinds of passions that seem to draw out this source of strength; but I think the most common term is 'mana'." He paused for a moment, checked that he was making sense, considered his words and deemed them safe to be shared before continuing. "I've been taught a way to render these characteristics visible to me. It's an ability developed by those who served as archers during the last war - an inner sense of sight."

Anarei's expression was tense with absorption, her lower lip caught in her teeth as she considered his words. He wondered if her interest in the subject was fuelled by the field of her study. "I've read books on them, yes. We're meant to learn how to work with the mana systems of individuals as healers, but I've never been able to grasp the concept." She pursed her lips, evidently chagrined at the idea. "Was that how you knew? You… recognised me?"

Lear nodded plainly; it wasn't a difficult concept, really.

She flushed a little - he couldn't tell whether it was from her own ineptitude, or his recognition of such. "And you fought your way out through the cultists, too?"

_That _was no question.

"Well... it was either I run away, get killed, or fight back." He was _not_ sorry he had to kill those cultists on his way out, yet it was _his_ turn to feel uneasy. Anarei was obviously adverse to the idea of killing. "I couldn't really run; it _was_ a long way down."

The colour of her cheeks deepened as her eyes flicked downwards, as if her hands had suddenly become very interesting. "Necessary." She murmured, then swallowed. While it had become evident that she'd witnessed much she found disturbing in the day, he found he could not shake the feeling that she was otherwise troubled.

"Maybe you _should_ rest now, Anarei." He returned his eyes to the fire, crossing his arms in response to the chill, now that the flames had died down that little bit more. "It's been a long day for you, and I'm sure there's much to do yet in the days to come."

She reached to tug her cloak firmer about herself, hugging her abdomen stiffly thereafter with her uninjured arm. "I'm fine." She insisted, quirking a hesitant smile. _Obviously lied, too._ "You can go to bed if you're tired."

He smiled knowingly - made sure that it _looked_ knowing, too. "I wouldn't have to _ask_ for your permission to go to bed if I'd _wanted _to do so. Or would you rather be rid of my presence?" His tone was courteous as he dipped his head in a little nod. "I can make myself scarce, if you want."

"I'd be sitting elsewhere if I wanted to be alone." Anarei met his eyes, then shrugged her shoulders somewhat helplessly, the tips of her curls shifting and rolling back with the motion. "I'm just a bit shaken, that's all. It's... yeah, it's been... a long day."

"Shaken... because of what happened to your family?" The discomfort in her was familiar, yet he could not quite put his finger on it - this made him curious, on top of her need of company. _His_ company, no less.

She took a deep breath and shut her eyes, the composure of her stance ebbing a little. Her shoulders slumped. "Among other things that would likely bore you."

Lear leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowed, though his thin smile remained upon his face, the combination giving him a slight air of deviousness. "I wouldn't mind listening to something that'll ease my mind and put me to sleep, at this point."

Anarei blinked once, obviously surprised at the change in his tone. The expression brightened her face, and for once since they'd met, he saw a flash of girlishness in her being. She smiled unexpectedly, deep and genuine, then bent forward and chuckled quietly into the palm of her hand.

Well. _That_ was somewhat unexpected.

After a moment or two, she lifted her head, the smile having mostly dissipated as she gazed at him. She assumed the sombre expression from before, now almost grimacing in contrast. The words escaped in barely a whisper, as if she had trouble forming them at all, but it appeared she had chosen to trust him with her thoughts. "I killed a man today."

Lear had to resist rolling his eyes again as he responded straightaway, "Because you _had_ to."

She'd obviously caught the exasperation in his tone, embarrassment, guilt and what appeared to be disappointment passing quickly through her face. "Yes." She bit her lip, looking down yet again. Vulnerable enough to concede without an argument, she was clearly stung. "Of course, you're right. I'm... probably just being stupid."

Right. No wonder this was so familiar. _You've seen it before, haven't you? On other people's faces, and then when you look into the mirror. Guilt. That's what it is._ "Not really... I suppose it does things to you, taking lives." He realised he was trying to comfort her, and felt a bit self-conscious. Lifting his hand, he ran the fingers quickly through his hair. "Especially when you're meant to be _saving_ them, hmm?" He paused for a moment as something occurred to him, and lowered his voice when he spoke again, more tentatively, "...Your first?"

"Mm." Her response came with a half-smile, half-grimace. "Yes."

He couldn't help but mirror her expression. "Unsavoury, isn't it?" He turned back to the fireplace; the logs were now no more than smouldering, jagged grey shapes, lit vermillion here and there through the cracks. "Nothing to do about that now except to get used to it - we live in a warring world, after all, whether it be man against man, or army against army."

Anarei's eyes were narrowed as she regarded him, though lacking in hostility. If anything, she seemed resigned - resigned to what she had done, and perhaps resigned to what she would _have _to do in the future. What she needed was simply acknowledgement, and company.

It made her seem all the more girlish.

Mute for now, she merely nodded.

Lear's lips thinned as he considered his previous note, thought it a horrible one on which to end. "That wasn't murder, Anarei," he supplemented, recalling a notion she had brought up earlier. "You killed to defend, to _protect_. It was a choice between two evils, and you chose the lesser one, in favour of _life_. Don't feel too bad about it."

Her lip was chewed half-raw, a deep ruddy hue blossoming over the smooth surface. She considered him, considered his words, then finally dipped her head - ending the conversation, as opposed to merely dismissing what wisdom she had gleaned from him. "Okay." She murmured. As an afterthought, she looked to his eyes, then added, softly, "Thank you."

He inclined his head as he got to his feet, pushing himself up with a wince. His legs were asleep. "Nothing to it, Anarei. Rest easy, and soon."

Without waiting for a response, he made towards the stairs. His footsteps seemed loud in the still silence of the inn, though not loud enough to drown out the accusations in his mind.

_Big words coming from you._

He was a hypocrite.

_Damn right you are; you're a hypocrite, a traitor. _

Betrayal. Brother against brother, even if they were brothers-in-arms.

_You have no right to pass judgement on the act of killing. _

He had nothing to defend, nothing to protect. In fact, he had _failed_ to do precisely those.

_Murderer. _

He shut his door and leaned back against it, pressing his hand into his abdomen, digging his fingers into the wounds. The pain cleared his head.

His teeth let go of his lower lip as he looked up, out the window, and rested his gaze on the waxing moon - so familiar; so similar to the one he saw _that_ night.

It had been almost a month already, but Lear wondered if that was anywhere _near_ enough time for him to get better.

* * *

The gods were kind and merciful. In the wake of the cultist attack, New Tristram had seen an evening of rain. The chill had settled, the lingering fog clouding the moonlit town square. But by the time dawn had come, the sun warmed the air, light glinting off crystal dewdrops that hung from the tips of leaves and petals. No longer did the smoke of the fires choke - like the stench and sight of blood in the streets, it too, was washed away by the rain.

A songbird chirped high in a tree, and gradually, the remains of the town came to life. The dead were laid to rest, and those in mourning came to smile - if only a little.

They sat at a place beside a window in the dining hall of their new lodgings. Through the spotless glass, the sunlight streamed in, bathing the wood of their table in warmth and light. She flexed her fingertips in the sun spots, revelling in the warmth they provided.

"The fine mornings are always the coldest ones around here."

Anarei arched an eyebrow. Genuinely surprised, she leaned over, planting her elbows gently upon the wood to study her companion carefully. Up-close, his eyes were, in their own way, warm - the green stood out.

_Warm and kind in his own way - that is, if you can look past his initial hostility. Oh, and his aversion to smiling, apparently._

"What're you talking about? It's warm here." She glanced up briefly as a young, freckled barmaid lowered mugs of hot tea onto their table, then nudged one towards him.

He looked a little disgruntled - a touch bereft, as he nodded quickly and picked up the mug. "_You_ would think so." He took a sip, and curled his hands around the mug thereafter to warm them. "You'd think anywhere - probably except Xiansai and certain regions of Scosglen - is warm compared to home, wouldn't you?"

_Oh?_ She wondered if the expression upon his face held some deeper meaning, considered its implications. Her own mug of tea warmed her hands further, and she pulled it closer, taking in the light, fragrant scent of the herb within. _Chamomile_. In the depths of her mind, a puzzle began to piece itself together, forming a sheet of parchment in which colourful pictures of herbs had been painted. Their descriptions were printed in careful cursive - her mam's hand.

_Chamomile. A herb to aid anxiety, restlessness and panic attacks - also particularly helpful for childbearing women._

She halted her mind before the puzzle could come together in full. Social gatherings - or even casual lunches were no time to be reciting her healers' notes.

"If we go by that logic," Anarei began, drumming her fingers upon her mug. "If I believe it's warm here based on the climate of my homeland, what does that say about where _you _are from?"

Lear shrugged, his movements still a touch stiff in the left shoulder. "I'm used to warmer weather, yes." He paused to take another sip. "Are you so desperate for company today? Where are your siblings?"

_Sleeping off her badly-undeserved injury. Hating himself and his brother for inflicting that injury._

The words sounded better in her mind - there, they were spoken with a trace of disgust that she wasn't quite sure Lear should hear.

Instead, she shrugged, hoping the gesture was sufficiently blasé. "Izzy's resting, and I brought her some lunch earlier. Strahan's... "

_Sulking,_ her mind said.

"Busy." She cleared her throat. "At any rate, we both need to eat, and you'll pardon me if I don't feel too much like being alone."

She fancied she saw a shadow of a smile pass over his face as he remained staring at his tea. "If you don't mind my company; I've been told I'm not much of a conversationalist."

_Oh, really? I never would have guessed._

"That's alright. We've been getting on fine either way." Anarei crooked a smile. She had a notion it was encouraged by the gesture on his part. "We've no reason to impress one another, at any rate. Soon, we'll part ways and be nothing but memories. We might as well be plain with each other in the meantime - just enjoy what company we have."

The barmaid returned, this time with a tray laden down with bread and thin vegetable soup. A small slab of roast meat glistened beneath a coat of oil - some of the farmers had slaughtered a cow earlier in the day.

"Eat up." Anarei straightened, reaching out to slice the bread. It was cold and a little hard, but heavy with oat and grain. She set three slices onto a plate, then pushed that towards Lear with one of the two bowls of soup.

That, at least, was piping hot. Wisps of steam drifted lazily upwards.

He nodded his thanks and returned one slice of bread back to the tray - over the past weeks, she had started to consider that perhaps his appetite wasn't great to begin with. "How extravagant, hmm?" Reaching for the pepper grinder, he cracked a generous amount of the spice over the surface of the soup. "Is this a farewell meal of sorts, then?"

_Well, someone likes his spices._

"We have some time yet. Though I suppose, by now, I really wouldn't be able to stop you if you wanted to go." She reached for her spoon, feeling its weight between her index finger and her thumb. It reminded her of Strahan's surgical scalpels - her own had not yet been crafted when she'd left Virkove.

They'd been packed off in a hurry, after all. War waited for no one. Certainly not for the children who needed to be sent to safety.

For a moment, she wondered if she'd miss her new companion when it came the time to set off. She decided she might think of him from time to time afterwards. "_Is_ this a farewell meal of sorts? Or will you surprise me again by saying yes to another invitation to dine together?"

Lear took a bite out of a piece of bread, seemed to decide that it was too hard, and dipped it into the soup to soak for a moment. "Well." Removing the bread from the soup, he tapping it on the edge of the bowl as it dripped, before looking up at Anarei. "It's not like I'm heading off right after this meal. You haven't taken out all my stitches yet, and if I try to do it myself, I may end up ripping something."

She found she could only smile at his response. It had not eluded her that he might have considered such a thing. Then again, she was certain he'd considered every possible way around having to stay. "That would be bad." Reaching out, she picked up his discarded slice of bread, suddenly aware that she'd neglected to take any for herself. It broke easily in her hands as she tore off small, bite-sized chunks, dropping them into her soup as she did. "You'd ruin all our hard work."

"So I would." He nodded his acquiescence as he chewed on the bread, and then proceeded to drink his soup, lapsing into silence for a few long moments, seeming entirely engrossed in his task of eating.

_Just as well. I'm not sure I have anything of interest to say to you, either._

The soup was light and somewhat bland, but it warmed, more and more with every swallow. They ate in silence for several long moments; she wondered at first if he was lost deep within his thoughts, but was soon pulled into mulling over her own affairs.

_That's right. We're parting ways in a few days, aren't we? _The idea made her wince a little, and she was certain it showed on her face. _Lut Gholein, huh? I'll have to go see Aunt Asha. Oh, gods, I'm not looking forward to that._

A lump grew in her throat, as it did every time the subject arose in her mind. Anarei wrinkled her nose, then gulped down some soup. The hot liquid did nothing to soothe her - instead, it merely burned.

_Think of something else._

Closing her mind to the images of endless dunes and deserts, she sought out new thoughts with which to occupy herself. _Lear_.

She looked up at him, watched as he ate, studied the way he moved, and wondered how he was feeling. It occurred to her then, that for all she had learnt about him in recent days, she still knew absolutely nothing. This knowledge irked her somewhat. What _would _he do, once they'd parted ways?

He caught her staring, and paused to stare right back with faintly-furrowed brows in the middle of slicing the small piece of roast meat into near-perfect halves. "...You're alright there, Anarei?"

"Yeah." She waved her bandaged hand dismissively. "I was just thinking, that's all."

_Probably not the best idea to stare at someone for so long. I'll have to be careful not to do it again._

He spared her another mildly-bewildered look, before he refocused upon his lunch - in such a manner that it seemed like he was trying to finish it as soon as possible, while ensuring that he chewed everything properly.

She got the impression he was uncomfortable. Not that she cared, but the situation seemed oddly reminiscent of something in her past, despite the fact that she'd never before had lunch with a boy outside family circles.

"Where will you go after we part ways?" The question was spoken with more bluntness than she would normally have used, but anything was better than the air of awkward silence between them.

He shrugged straightaway, his tone dismissive in its nonchalance - as if he wasn't quite sure, but didn't really care either way. "South, I suppose."

_South, to Kingsport?_

Anarei smiled lightly, scooping up a piece of sodden bread. "You could go see the Skovos Isles."

He snickered half-heartedly, evidently not liking the idea too much - or perhaps, once again he just didn't _care. _"I could, but who knows... I'll decide once I hit the coast."

She reached out, cutting through her half of the hunk of meat. "Look us up if you find your way to Lut Gholein afterwards. I suppose we'll be there for quite a while."

Lear's reaction was instant, and unexpectedly big. His expression warmed and his eyes brightened significantly. "_That_'s where you're headed?" He blinked, and after the fleeting moment, seemed to deflate as he returned his gaze to his overcooked piece of beef. "I won't be going there, I'm afraid. It's a pity."

_Oh, my. That was quite some reaction._

She hoped her face appeared sufficiently unbothered by his response. In truth, it bewildered her - she'd learnt something new of him, yet understood none of it.

_He seems almost... disappointed._

Anarei nibbled off a piece of zucchini in her spoon, then cleared her throat. _Okay, try again._

"Mm, that _is _a pity." She remarked - then congratulated herself inwardly on having managed to temper her voice so that it was both pleasant and conversational. "I suppose we'll definitely be parting ways for good, then. In which case, if I forget - thanks, for everything."

"Nothing t -" Lear began, but was cut off when a young woman flitted towards the table.

She was bearing a tray with three small bowls in her hand. Her smile was sweet upon her pale, dainty lips - she was no noble, but had a sort of less refined, more common beauty about her, the kind that was not very impressive, but pleasant.

_That's a familiar face - but where have I seen her before?_

Anarei blinked as the newcomer lowered the tray onto the table. Fruit - peaches, plums and berries lay nestled within the bowls, topped with dollops of cream. A sumptuous dessert for such times.

_How did she get all that? _Vaguely, she recalled news of a merchant troupe having passed the town, but surely these would have been very expensive.

Lear stared at the bowls blankly for a moment, then, without even lifting his head, simply stated, "We didn't order those."

The young woman laughed - a tinkling, bright laugh that she recognised. _Ah. The lady in the crowd at Master Bron's._

Anarei bit her lip, forcing back the smile that threatened to surface. She imagined it would not have been particularly welcoming. _Almost didn't recognise her without that band of admirers on her tail._

"It's on me." The young woman winked, and invited herself into a chair - invited herself to join them for dessert, too, apparently, since she had prepared her own share, as well. She shook her bangs out of her face, only to have them fall back over her right eye. "It's just my thanks for helping out all the townsfolk these past few days. Eat up."

Anarei swallowed her mouthful of soup, slanting her gaze aside towards Lear. He looked every bit as confused as she felt.

She cleared her throat, then looked towards the newcomer, smiling mildly. "We've just finished eating, miss, so I'm afraid I'll have to decline your gracious gesture. There's really nothing to thank."

_Feel free to chime in anytime, Lear - because I sure as hells am not going to take food from a stranger. _

"Well," the young woman scooped up a blueberry with some cream, and ate it with relish before her smile widened. "Even so, there'll be something to thank soon, anyway."

"I reject."

"What?" It was the woman's turn to look confused. Lear, on the other hand, had taken to looking more than a little anxious.

"Whatever offer, proposition, deal, or job you _think_ we'll be interested in taking up, I reject them, miss." He stated mildly, pushed away the bowl of dessert before him, and continued in matter-of-fact sort of tone, "Besides, this is not the time for desserts."

_Heh, that was straight to-the-point._

Anarei allowed her smile to deepen just a touch as she glanced back towards Lear. "Perhaps you had best give this to the grieving, miss. They will likely appreciate the sentiments more."

_Though, that is a bit presumptuous. For all we know, she's only trying to flirt with him._

The woman shrugged, grinned, and seemed not in the least bit discouraged. "I'm just a girl in need of a favour. It's for a good cause." She helped herself to another spoonful of fruit-and-cream. "The militia's too busy - _was_, anyway. Now they're picking up the pieces while my beloved uncle's life is in peril."

She paused to look between the both of them, sincerity within her round, watery eyes of warm-brown.

_That sort of appeal would work better with a man._ Anarei cast an involuntary glance aside towards her companion and wondered if he was moved. _She's a pretty girl, after all._

"Is this how you _usually_ get your way, miss?" His tone was mild, good-natured enough, but his expression was unamused - evidently unmoved, after all. "Flutter up to some stranger, offer them an exchange of favours without knowing who they are, and without introducing yourself?"

_For that matter, is this considered payment for that favour? Fruit?_

The young woman chuckled, set down her spoon, and gave her head a sharp little shake, flipping her hair out of her eyes momentarily once more. "Oh, pardon me, sir." She straightened, and smiled that warm, sweet smile again. "My name is Leah. I'm one of the local folks here."

Anarei arched an eyebrow. Leah. Lear. Something clicked in her head, pulling her back into the morning of the cultists' attack. A warning cry pierced the surfacing memory. Was _that _why he'd reacted the way he did?

"Pleasure, Leah." She cleared her throat mildly, then glanced between the two. _They're obviously not old friends or even acquaintances, so he probably thought someone was calling out to him that day. _"I'm not quite sure we're the right people to be asking for a favour, however. As you can see, my friend here isn't quite well."

Leah's eyes narrowed, though her orbs only seem to gleam all the more brightly. "Well enough to dispose of half a dozen cultists, though?" She turned her eyes to the man, taking in the anxiety that was making itself apparent upon his formerly-cool expression, her own voice unfailingly sweet and pleasant as she went on. "Was it you who pulled the heroic act of helping all those people escape from the top floor, too?"

_Ah. That._

She'd neglected to think upon that before, knowing only that Lear had most certainly disposed of the cultists in his own way. It had been, as he had said, a necessity. It didn't sit quite right with her then, and it didn't now.

_But for her to be bringing it up like this - has she been keeping watch on him all this time?_ Anarei pursed her lips, then resumed eating in silence. _I suppose I should be glad that this apparently doesn't concern me at all._

"Not so much an act of heroism as one of necessity, Lady Leah." He inclined his head stiffly. "I did what I had to do. I'm not some kind of hero, and I'm not interested in going out of my way to do someone a favour, when I know _nothing _about them." He crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat in a conclusive manner, though she thought he looked more than a little flustered. "So we'll have to decline your gifts and your proposition."

_Well, at least he's not thinking of heading back out there on a fool's errand. In his current state, he'd probably drop dead._

Anarei allowed what she felt to be an adequately apologetic smile to curl her lips. Diplomacy had never been her strong suit - but what the woman asked was not so much a favour as it was a rescue mission. One she was certain they had no reason to jump into. Strahan would certainly deem it unnecessary.

"Perhaps you can try asking the militia again. They seem to have made some headway as of late." That was not a lie. They _had _cleared the nearby fields of the risen dead, though one could never be certain they were completely safe for travel.

Leah looked a bit sullen, now, as she averted her eyes. "I _could_, but my uncle... he's old and frail, and the soldiers don't think he's worth the risk." She looked up at Anarei, appealing to her, now that Lear seemed immovable. "You'd understand - you're a healer. _Any_ life is worth saving, right?"

_Ah, hells._

Anarei swallowed, then reached for her mug of tea. "I'm sorry, but I won't be able to help you, either. My party is long overdue for our destination. I'm sure you'll understand. At any rate... we're surely not as skilled nor as equipped for that kind of combat - as you've said, we're healers. You'd really be better off with the militia on your rescue mission."

The other woman sighed, though she seemed resigned to the others' decision as she dropped her spoon into her empty bowl, causing a sharp _clink_, before rolling her shoulders and arching her back in a stretch. "You make it sound like I haven't already asked them... but anyway, one can always try again, hmm?" She beamed, and stood. "My appreciation for your hard work remains, though, so eat your desserts. Take care, then."

She gave a quick wave, and strode off, brushing past Lear.

"Well, that's interesting." Anarei glanced towards Lear, interlacing her fingers about her mug. "Her uncle, eh."

_Have I seen him around town? _She considered this for a brief moment. "I don't suppose you know who she's talking about?"

Lear shrugged; the exchange with the perky young woman had put him in something of a bad mood, it seemed. "Not a clue. She _was _staying in the same place as we were, though." He jerked his head at the two remaining bowls of fruits, scowling in distaste. "Either way, I don't want that."

_Neither do I. It seems so shady somehow. _

She bit back a sigh, then arched her head back, peering towards the currently-unoccupied bar. "I don't want that either. Think we can pass it off to the maids?"

He shrugged again, but nodded in assent for her suggestion. "Waste not, want not. Even though we don't want it, we shouldn't waste it." He uncrossed his arms, clearly irritable, now. "Who _does_ that? Just walk up to complete strangers and ask them for _that_ kind of help?" Dropping his elbow onto the table and his chin into his hand, he lowered his voice. "She must've had her eyes on us before this. I don't see her giving out desserts to everyone around here."

_That would imply you'd been watching her, too._

Anarei pursed her lips - she didn't think he'd appreciate it if she'd smiled. Instead, she took a drink, contemplating his musings. "People do the unlikeliest things when desperate. Maybe she felt she didn't have a choice - not that I'm saying she went about it in the most appropriate fashion."

The barmaid had returned to her post, and was now wiping off newly-washed mugs. Anarei lifted a hand, waving her over.

"It sure is a small world, too." Lear remarked glumly as the barmaid walked towards them. "To think that we _almost_ share a name."

"You can have these. We're not really hungry and we don't want them to go to waste." Anarei smiled warmly at the barmaid. "Leah brought them by."

She hoped the townsfolk were fond of Leah.

The maid beamed at the sight of the fruits - then let out an "Oh!" as Leah's name was mentioned. Anarei suspected she was a good-natured sort of girl to begin with. "Are you sure, miss?"

Anarei glanced towards Lear, then nodded. "Yeah, we're sure. Enjoy them."

"Great." Lear grunted as the maid sidled off happily, desserts in hand. "Miss Popular has her eyes set on us."

"On _you_." She corrected him. The idea both irritated and amused her. "There's no need to be so agitated. We'll all part ways soon enough. In the meantime, just keep her at bay if you're not interested. The gods know she won't be able to force a stubborn horse down the path it doesn't want to go."

He turned away, grumbling under his breath. The smile that hung upon her lips threatened to rise once more, and she allowed herself to chuckle.

_Oh, Lear. I don't know why we were made to meet in this world, but I'll concede you've been a strangely pleasurable encounter._

She watched him again, then decided for the moment that she _might _just miss his sullen and unwilling company after all.

* * *

**Authors' Notes:**

**Oph: **My goodness, that went way too quick. We were about to go on and write another scene, and then I checked the word-count, and did a double-take. Whoopsies.

**Em: **But hey, on the flip-side, y'all got to see some canon taking place! As you might no doubt have noticed, we're not particularly fond of Leah's character. But she IS interesting to play with. Right, Oph?

**Oph: **I must admit... I enjoy writing jerkassery. Speaking of ass, here's covering ours: Diablo belongs to Blizzard. Our kids are ours. Leah belongs to Blizzard, but we own most of her characterisation. I also enjoy lampshading. If you don't know what that is, check out TV Tropes.

**Em:** We've also been subtly (or not so subtly) inserting foreshadowing goodies. If you find one, or think you did, review and let us know. We reward correct guesses with cookies.

**Oph: **Wouldn't that defeat the point of foreshadowing? Anyway, we don't really have cookies. But we DO appreciate feedback. Thanks go out to you, **Cath**, who reviewed the last chapter. You don't need to have read our two Diablo II stories to understand this one, but I guess the first few chapters ARE a bit vague, especially with Lear. Hope this chapter's shed some light on his and Anarei's characters! Until the next chapter, cheerio!


	7. Chapter 6: Terrible Liars

**Chapter 6**

**Terrible Liars**

* * *

"Three sevens."

"Uh-huh. Don't you lie to me, young lady. Flip 'em."

Isobel let out a soft groan in complaint, then reached forward to grab the three worn cards set upon the wooden block that was their makeshift table. She breasted her cards, looking glum.

Anarei chuckled softly, placing the first of her last three cards down. "Don't sulk. You've already won once."

The young girl made a face, then straightened where she sat in the wagon, perched so close to the drivers' seats so as to keep some company. "Well, I'm trying to win twice. Now call your cards."

"Two sevens."

Isobel squealed, as if she'd unearthed a huge scandal. "_That's_ how you knew!"

"No, I knew because you're a _terrible _liar." Anarei reached forward to scuff her sister playfully atop her head, then yelped as the wagon shook, barely managing to keep their playing surface steady. "Strahan!"

Her brother raised a hand in the manner of an apology. "Sorry. Holes here and there."

"You should pay more attention to your cards, Strahan. We're beating your behind at this." Isobel set down her own thick stack - she'd had some bad luck this round - then got to her feet, wrapping her arms about their brother's shoulders and planting her chin atop his head. "How much further do we have to go?"

Strahan pursed his lips. "We _just _left Tristram, Izzy." Despite the relative curtness of his words, he raised a hand, his lips curling somewhat. The smile was gentle; Anarei had only ever seen him wear it in the presence of a certain few people. Isobel was one of them. "Just enjoy the ride, hm? You'll be at Lord and Lady Boissevant's soon enough - and then you'll start to miss the open road."

Anarei set her last card down, flipping it open to reveal the nine of clubs. Isobel made a face at her, but then conceded defeat and handed over her own stack of cards. "I suppose this means Strahan's the worst liar among us."

He scoffed, then moved to hand his own stack of cards to her. "Because I'm so pure of heart."

_Liar_.

She snorted, glancing aside towards Isobel who had reacted with similar amusement. "You're _still _not fooling either of us." The cards in her hands were hastily shuffled, though she didn't quite feel like another round. "Let's take a break - and we can call it a happy draw. Alright?"

Isobel flopped back down into her seat, leaning into the padded side of the wagon and tilting her head upwards to watch the interwoven branches overhead. "Okay."

Anarei watched as her sister began to hum, hands outstretched towards the branches and the lazily-drifting leaves that floated on a breeze as they drove past. In the days following the cultist attack, Isobel had been kept under strict watch, though that had done little to dampen her spirits. If anything, it served only to make her appreciate the outdoors more.

_Thank the gods she wasn't permanently harmed._

Little dots of sunlight streamed through the canopy through which they travelled. It flicked at their skin, like shooting stars fleeting past to form the skin of a cheetah. Anarei found herself marveling at the way the patterns changed with the shifting leaves. Her mind wandered, and try as she might to avoid the subject, it led her to _him_.

They'd said their goodbyes in the early morning as the wagon-loading had commenced. Isobel had been more than a little unhappy - she'd spent quite some time in his company while bound to a chair for her recovery, and had become quite fond of him.

"I'll miss you. Don't be a stranger, okay?" The young girl had said. Unabashedly, as if she'd known Lear all her life. "Come by and visit us if you're ever near Lut Gholein, or Virkove! We can show you around."

Anarei found herself smiling at the memory of _her _suggestion, that he visit them in Lut Gholein. True, his reaction this morning hadn't been as extreme, but she wondered if she hadn't caught just the slightest traces of longing in his eyes as he'd patted the young girl's head.

"We'll meet again if the gods will it." He'd said.

_If the gods will it, huh?_

She took a deep breath, lowering her elbow onto the arm of her seat. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a squirrel scampering along the trunk of a tree, its soft, bushy tail disappearing into a hole thereafter.

_What of my own will?_

Now that she was on her way to Lut Gholein, Anarei found herself looking over the happenings of the past month. They'd made a new acquaintance, yes - one that she had, in some way, come to care about. She wondered if he'd left New Tristram already; he _had _been adamant upon leaving, after all.

_I don't know what's happened, but something's definitely got him in knots. Could it be related to the state he was in when we found him? _There were so many questions - questions left unanswered.

Yet the thoughts of Lear occupied only a small segment of her mind. She realised then that she had become increasingly aware of the troubles - not only those rising in the north, but those suffered by the other lands of the Sanctuary. Having witnessed the demonic attacks and fought through the waves of cultists, she saw it, felt it - hated it.

Hated that the town of New Tristram seemed doomed to fight their own battle with dwindling supplies and men.

_Perhaps Lear was right. I do want to act._

Anarei halted the thought; it made her laugh to imagine herself so selfless. The truth of the matter was that it just made her feel _so bad _to leave, when they were so obviously in need of external aid. And she was just one person.

_Is this how Strahan feels when he says he's serving his own conscience?_

He glanced aside at her, frowning as he studied her face. "You're quiet."

She wondered if he'd read her mind, as he so often appeared to do. "I'm just thinking, is all."

The horses nickered as Strahan flicked the reins lazily, the length of his whip barely licking the brown-and-grey rumps. "Do I want to know?"

"You're going to yell at me." Anarei looked towards her brother. He raised an eyebrow; she chuckled dryly, shaking her head. "Help isn't coming to Tristram, is it?"

Strahan's jaw tensed as he looped the reins about his wrist. "I don't think so, no. But they'll have to handle it themselves - we've got a schedule to keep to, and troubles in our own homeland to worry about."

"But our people were made to fight, to protect." She countered. A warm sensation had begun to rise in her belly, and she wondered if it had anything to do with the way her heart pounded against her throat. "These are farmers we're talking about."

"What do you want to do about it, then?"

_Just like Strahan. Plain and to the point._

She bit her lip. "I don't know."

He considered her for several long moments, his brow furrowed in a heavy frown. They were approaching a bend in the path, and the trees overhead had grown sparse. The sunlight bounced off the silver threads in his hair as he looked her in the eyes.

Then, quite suddenly, he tugged on the reins, causing the horses to stop. Behind them, Isobel let out a squeal as she tumbled off her seat onto the floor of the wagon.

"You _do _know. You're not not sharing." His voice was stern.

Anarei took a deep breath, glanced back to see that Isobel had climbed back up, then turned to face her brother.

_Do I really want to go back there? _She felt her teeth clenching as she stared right back at him, both unyielding; yet there was something different in the way he'd asked this time, as if he'd been expecting it. _I think I do._

"Bring Izzy to Lut Gholein. I'm going back to New Tristram."

She thought she saw a muscle twitch in Strahan's brow, but his voice was calm enough, if not hard. "Why?"

It was obvious what he thought her reason was, but she surprised even herself. Avoiding Lut Gholein was the least of her worries.

He'd been particularly testy since the day of the cultist attack - since he'd seen his blood-brother. Karalir Lumeir was not a welcome name in the Naveau house.

_But you didn't come to us as his brother. You came to us as your own man - as Strahan Tandhekar, the son of your mother._

She suspected the source of his irritation came also from his belief that Lear had overstepped his boundaries with Isobel in healing her. The idea that it bothered him at all irritated her.

_Always so hard on yourself, Strahan._

Anarei pursed her lips, refusing to break the gaze. Isobel had climbed up, hands clutching at the wooden barrier separating them in tense silence. "Because I don't want to lie awake every night wondering if I could've saved some injured soldier in Tristram."

He scowled; the expression was unbecoming of him. "He's long gone by now."

It took a while for her to realise what Strahan had meant. "I'm not going back for him, neither. I'm doing this for me, and for whatever poor soul gets his leg chewed off in battle."

"So that's it?" Strahan wound the reins tightly several times about his wrist. The scowl upon his face began to fade, though she sensed his obvious displeasure. "You're going to be a volunteer now? Help people, be a war hero?"

_War hero. Ha. _She gritted her teeth. "No. I'm doing this for completely selfish reasons. I'm going to be a volunteer and help people - so I can sleep at night."

He snarled just then, throwing one hand into the air before slapping it down onto the wood of their shared seat. "It's _dangerous_, Rei! It's not just practice anymore, and it's not a game. You could die out there and the gods know your parents will never forgive me if anything happened to you on the road."

"Our parents." It was her turn to scowl. "_Our_ parents, Strahan."

"_Our_ parents told me to bring you to Lut Gholein!"

_Ouch. I haven't heard Strahan shout in a long time, come to think about it._

His eyes were narrowed to slits as he glowered at her, one hand tightened over the arm of the seat on his side. She wondered if he would yell again - he did not. "They'll understand. I know they will - and you know they will."

She thought she saw a flash of something in his eyes - realisation, or was it another un-named sentiment? He was obviously conflicted.

_Well, that means he's giving it some thought. Weeks ago, he'd have just shot you down._

Anarei swallowed, then reached out tentatively to grasp his shoulder. Her other hand went to Isobel, pulled the girl close. "I _want _this. I want to do this."

After what seemed like an eternity of silence in which he merely stared at her, Strahan shifted. Slowly, he drummed his fingers against the seat. She thought he would flick the reins, continue on their way - but then he tossed them aside, getting to his feet onto the narrow stand beneath the seat and turning to face the wagon. She watched as he rummaged about the trunks - then jerked back as he straightened to fling something into her lap.

She recoiled with a gasp - then looked down.

It was a _backpack_.

Anarei let out a faint breath, lifting her eyes to his - the blue wavered a touch, and then they settled at discontent. Discontent, and _acquiescence_.

* * *

He was free, in a way - he snorted aloud at the notion as he gathered his things. _Free to do what? Run?_ Keep running. It was all that he could do, at this point.

Then again, he could stop. But his instincts told him to keep running, and the memory of what made him start running in the first place was a little too fresh yet, so he would entertain his instincts for a little longer. Fight or flight... he didn't feel much like fighting.

He arranged various items laid out upon his bed into his backpack - some salvaged notes and bound books, items of clothing, oils and polish, whetstone, flint, a near-empty jar of salve made of aloe and minerals, two skins - one for potion and one for water, his mother's short sword.

There really wasn't much. _Though if I die, I won't even be able to take these little bits and pieces with me. _

He put on the backpack, adjusted the straps, and pulled his cloak over it. Tugged on his hood as he descended the stairs, handed the innkeeper the key. He was simply another nameless traveller who passed through New Tristram. Nothing more.

He would have to travel on foot for a while. He wondered how far his one-time companions would have gone by now. They had left the day before, and it had been an amicable sort of farewell. Strahan had been more standoffish than he'd remembered, but the sisters were cordial enough. Little Isobel, in particular, had been kind to him without reservations. He was grateful.

_Or are you? You're just letting all their hard work go to waste, eventually. _

He didn't want to think about that right now. Surely he could afford to let the more recent, fonder memories occupy him for a while. He let his mind's eye drift shut - _I've been watching far and wide for so long, now, and they still haven't caught up. I can afford to rest a bit. _

It was then, when he slackened the focus of his other sight, that he noticed something - so close and somehow so mundane, a presence he had started to take for granted, that he had missed it completely before.

He broke into a run, rounded a corner, down a hill and into a makeshift shelter. What he saw with his eyes confused him, and thoroughly caught him by surprise.

"What are you _doing_ here, Anarei?"

She'd been smiling, laughing, deep in conversation with a young soldier. Her hands worked deftly to bind the soldier's injured arm, fingers winding the white lengths around expertly as if she had done it a thousand times before. Somehow, for some reason, she was _there,_ instead of on the road with her siblings - and she was happy. For the first time since their meeting and through their parting, he saw her truly at ease.

He did not share the same feelings about her presence here.

She glanced up as he called his query, blinking once. Then the smile returned to her face, warmer than before. "I didn't know _you _were still here - I thought you'd left already."

_No need to get so worked up; it's not as if she came back for _you_ again. _"Uh, no... I'd spent yesterday seeing to some errands." _Like moping and sulking and thinking about things you can't change._ "Just bits and pieces, and it was late before I knew it, so I thought I'd just stay one more night."

Anarei nodded at the soldier, gesturing him thereafter towards another young woman further in the shelter. "All done with these errands?" She got to her feet, wiping her hands off on her apron while striding towards him.

He nodded, feeling his movement to be stiffer than he'd expected. "I'm going now, actually. I just noticed..." He frowned with incomprehension; Anarei was here alone, as far as he could tell. "I thought you were bound for Lut Gholein? Where are your siblings?"

She shrugged a shoulder, then jerked her head in the general direction of the town's gates, the gesture non-committal. "Off without me. There's been a change of plans, is all - nothing for you to worry about." A smile once again warmed her face, though there was just a hint of disappointment in the tone of her voice. "At any rate, if you're leaving now, you'd best go. Your friend was looking for you."

"My friend?" A wave of dread swept over him, and he felt his mouth go dry in an instant. "Who?"

She blinked twice, her face completely neutral save for the underlying amusement in the curve of her lips. "Leah."

He resisted the urge to put his hand to his face. His mind informed him that she was lingering about the main gates of the town. He _could_ sneak out through one of the side-passages... except they had all been barred and boarded up and damned near _barricaded shut _since the attack of the cultists.

"D'you think she'll go away if I leave her waiting for a bit longer?"

Anarei seemed sympathetic to his plight, shrugging her shoulders lightly, her eyes half-lidded as she gazed at him. "Perhaps. Personally, I think she's not keen on giving you up just yet, so maybe you should go break up with her properly. Chances are you won't make it if you try to sprint past her."

Lear considered this. He _could_ try and rush past her - so fast that the eyes wouldn't be able to follow, as he was taught - but Anarei was right. It would be too much of a strain on his recently-recovered body, not to mention the energy he could _not_ spare at present, thanks to his attempt at stopping Isobel's own mana system from frying up her insides.

For the umpteenth time in the past month, he wondered if he _should _have been more heartless with the girl.

"Just tell her you're not interested." Anarei flicked her curls back, her expression darkening slightly as her gaze moved past him. Another soldier had entered the shelter, supported by two others - blood ran heavily down his leg. "With all these people coming in like this, I don't think she has any right to expect you to fight for _her _sake alone. It's not reasonable."

_Well you_ have_ been a bit of a mercenary yourself, haven't you? _

He couldn't remember if he'd said goodbye to Anarei, but he was storming up to the gates before he quite knew how he had gotten there. And there she was, leaning against the old, battered stones and rusting iron. Her eyes upon him, her saccharine smile adorning her face. He wondered if she had seen him before he saw her.

"Here comes my champion," she lilted. She pushed herself off the wall, beamed at him and opened her mouth again, but he cut her off.

"I'm not interested." He held up a hand, as if to halt her voice. "I wasn't interested, and I'm not interested now. I don't care how much you love your uncle, I have my own business to see to."

"Oh, I couldn't care _less_ if you're interested or not, sir." Her smile - one of cloying sweetness, the type that makes a man choke. "You _will_ look for my uncle, and I'll tell you why, now that your lady-friend is absent." She cocked her head playfully. "How kind of me, hmm, to preserve your dirty little secrets?"

_What dirty little secrets? _He held back those words from being voiced; they would be what she'd _wanted_ to hear. Instead, Lear held his silence, kept his jaws set.

"...What's one of _your_ kind doing in New Tristram?" She folded her arms at her midsection, lifting her bosoms as she rolled her shoulders. "Are you off to your next job, or are you heading back to report a failed one?" Her smile became dark, sinister despite her large round eyes gazing unwaveringly into his own, and he felt a chill run down his spine. "Or... are _you_ the job, Viz-Jaq'taar?"

He shivered at the jarringly coarse sounds of the name, and he couldn't help averting his eyes from Leah's. Those warm, childlike, _deceptively-sweet _eyes.

_The little witch! _He scowled, and fought to remain calm. _Cut her down, NOW!_

No. She was too well-know about town, and even if he hid the body, people _knew_ she'd been waiting for him.

"What are you talking about?" He knew he was terribly unconvincing.

And he was right. Her smile grew more smug. "For someone who's so good at what they do, you're a pretty horrid liar."

He became aware that Anarei was approaching. In contrast to his own haste, her footsteps were leisurely, albeit well-paced enough that she might soon begin to overhear.

His voice came out as a low growl. "Look... Lady Leah." He took a half-step closer, dropping his voice further. "If you _dare_ say _anything _about me to anyone else, I will _end_ you."

"And what makes you think you won't meet _your _end when I use my knowledge against you?" Her voice softened as well, yet her expression was incongruously pleasant. He knew it was for Anarei - from where the other girl was, she would see Leah's face and only think them having a casual conversation.

Anarei was close. There was no time for bantering with threats. "Where's your uncle?" He asked, loud enough such that Anarei might easily hear him.

"Somewhere inside the Cathedral. He'd been missing since a few days after the shooting star landed and caused the quake." Leah turned her smile to the younger woman. "You can come too, Miss Healer, if you're worried about your patient."

"What?" Anarei blinked, clearly surprised as she glanced between him and the offending other. "Did you just sell _my _services?" She did not sound pleased, though he noted that she had avoided using his name.

"I did not!" He was annoyed. Not only did the little witch blackmail him into a mundane little task, she had dragged unwanted company into it, too.

Anarei did not look convinced. "I guess that means you've sold _your _service to her cause? You're nowhere near ready to be battling skeletal champions and gods know what else lurks in that old cathedral." She peered towards Leah as she came to a full halt. Her distaste for the other woman was evident - from her posture, to her unusually cold voice, down to the way she looked upon the other from her height. "If you bring him out there now, I guarantee one or both of you won't come back."

The little witch was unmoved by the other woman's attitude. "Oh, I have absolutely _no_ intention to die in there. He will open the way for me; if he can't make it, I'm not above escaping by myself." She snickered at the man's snarls, but kept her eyes affixed upon Anarei. "As I said, feel free to come along and ensure that he doesn't undo all your hard work." She winked at her, the short, but delicately-curled lashes batting. "I wouldn't mind having an extra pair of hands, neither."

Anarei's eyebrows lifted into her forehead. Evidently unimpressed by the other, she nonetheless appeared to be considering the implications of the situation. Her hands moved to her waist, where her fingers drummed against the ties of her apron.

Finally, the healer grunted, brushing her bangs aside somewhat impatiently. "Well?"

She appeared to be asking for his opinion. He shook his head insistently. "Don't come. Do your work as a healer; you didn't come back for this." Or he _hoped_ she didn't. "I'll be careful."

"You'll die." Anarei cautioned, her voice low. Her eyes were narrowed; she was obviously irritated that he'd agreed to go at all.

Leah flicked her short hair back, and he caught the glint of deviousness in her eyes as she looked between him and the healer. "_Anyone_ could die, though. This is war." She smiled sweetly at Anarei. "I guess a _healer _really shouldn't be out in the field, much less one so _young_. Wouldn't want you getting hurt because you can't wield a weapon."

_Forget the consequences. They're going to catch you soon, anyway. Get rid of her. _

Not while Anarei was there, he couldn't. She _was_ young, and he'd rather not scare her like this - like how he'd scared Lady Chryse, years ago.

The peridot flared as Anarei scowled. At present, she was more angry and insulted than she was scared - not that she had reason to be the latter. Her words were spat out with venom, the hazel in her eyes flashing. "When are we leaving?"

"Tomorrow, at dawn. How's that sound?" The light-hearted lilt in her voice returned, and she uncrossed her arms to plant them on her hips.

"Whatever." Lear grunted. He didn't have much of a choice in this to begin with, anyway.

"Fine by me." Anarei muttered. She had spoken hastily, and she knew it - though by the look on her face, she didn't feel too bad about it. Not as bad as _he_ felt, anyway.

"Great." The other woman chuckled, and Lear wondered if the laughter didn't sound rather witch-like. "I'll see you both at the Cathedral's main doors. Until then..." She smirked at Lear. "Buck up, young man. Have a good day, the both of you - tomorrow won't be nearly as nice."

* * *

_Not one night out on my own and I've already managed to get myself into a spot of trouble. Strahan's going to be so proud._

The night was colder than usual, though Anarei supposed it was due to the state of her new lodgings - dying embers in the place of a roaring fire. Once again, she'd opted for Rosethorn Riffle - the sight of Master Bron with his son's widow made her feel a bit more than she'd prefer. At present, all she wanted was peace of mind.

_Be neutral,_ Strahan had said. Act as a healer, and not as a bag of feelings. Objectivity is separation from your own point of view.

_Well, that piece of advice has certainly gone down the drain._

She scowled, folding her arms and tucking her hands into her sleeves. _I can't believe I let that cow get the better of me._

For that matter, she couldn't believe she'd let herself be baited like that.

_Too hasty, Rei. _She growled, then threw her forehead into her palm, slumping over her table. _Too damn hasty and too damn proud. It's all that northern blood in you._

"Why did you agree to it?"

The cold, hard voice was from a distant away - she guessed that he was standing at the entrance of the empty lounge-room.

_Oh, great. Now Lear can yell at me in Strahan's place._

She turned around in her chair. In all honesty, she had no defense, but thought it better to try, anyway. "Why did _you _agree to it?"

That little question had been bothering her, too.

It had a greater effect than she'd expected. Lear spluttered, then growled, and after a long moment spent in what looked like careful deliberation, he sighed, his tone that of a man defeated. "That little witch threatened me into it."

_Did she have something to hold over your head?_

Anarei frowned, leaning forward. In the dimly-lit room, it was nonetheless possible to see how much recent events had affected him. "You don't look like someone who could be threatened."

She thought he pouted at her, a hint of childish petulance finding its way into his tone. "You threatened to chain me to a bed," he offered. "And _anyone_ can be threatened when you know enough about them, can't they?"

"Eh." Anarei pursed her lips, though she could not help but to smile at the sight of his expression. He looked so much younger. "I threatened to chain you to your bed when I knew next to nothing about you. Even now, I _still _know next to nothing about you."

_And I did that for your own good. _He had made her sound so selfish, somehow - so unkind.

Swallowing the surfacing irritation, she let out a short breath. "So what does _she _know about you that even I don't?"

His face darkened immediately at that; so much for looking young. "Something that's not her business - nor are they _yours_, for that matter."

She blinked once - the change in his tone was distinct, harsh and hurried. It had taken her by surprise. She hoped he hadn't seen her flinch, and carefully schooled her expression into one of nonchalance. "Okay." The lump in her throat throbbed painfully - both embarrassed, and for some odd reason, stung; Anarei turned away, folding her hands upon her table. "Okay."

Lear walked hastily to her, dragging over a chair as he called out with a nonetheless disgruntled, but significantly gentler voice. "Hey..." He sat down beside her. "It's... just personal, alright? I have no idea how she found out about them, but they're things that don't concern you, and _shouldn't_ concern you."

_You're just so damn confusing. Gods, what am I to do with you?_

She swallowed again, not quite trusting herself to speak just yet. Despite having reminded herself time and again that he was a mere acquaintance who owed her nothing, she wondered if she didn't actually deserve a little more information than she had at present.

_After all, we've saved each other, spent a whole month together. And yet all I know about him is that he's a terrible conversationalist with a bad appetite and an unnatural obsession with his scarf._

Anarei took a deep breath, then dared herself to speak. "It's okay. As you've said, it's really not my business." Her voice had taken on a somewhat passive-aggressive edge. _Good. Let him know I'm not pleased. Honestly, I held you when you had a breakdown, damn it - tch'. Not my business, indeed._

He frowned, clearly aware that he had offended her, and spoke up grudgingly, but with resignation. "...Fine. I'm not going to tell you anything that'll drag you into my problems, but other than that... ask away, if you care to know." He averted his gaze, and added in a mutter, "If we're making faces at each other already, tomorrow's going to be a hell of a day."

_On the other hand, if I ask you something you don't want to share, we'll both end up in a bad mood tomorrow._

She pursed her lips, wondering if she looked as irritated as she felt. "What's the point? If I ask you something you don't want to disclose, we'll end up at each other's throats, anyway. Gods, Lear, we don't even _know _each other. We've gone through so much together this month, and what are we now? Two people who can't get even along, long enough to save an old man neither of us give a damn about." She planted her elbows onto the table. "What're we even _doing_?"

He ran his fingers back through his hair, then tugged his scarf closer about his neck, sighing into the fabric over his mouth. "You don't have to come."

"Of course I do." She snapped, sounding a touch more waspish than she had intended. The impatience was undeserved, however, and she shook her head quickly, lifting her eyes to his. "...I'm sorry, but I don't want to see you die in there."

He snorted into his scarf, even as his voice weakened a touch. "I'm not going to die _that_ easily."

She tried for a faint smile, and managed now that the air had cleared somewhat between them. "I don't trust you."

"You shouldn't." Despite his light-hearted tone, the irony within did not go amiss, and the atmosphere was dampened once more.

Anarei watched him for several long moments, studied the way his face darkened beneath the shadows cast by the night. Finally, she relented, letting out a sigh. "Lear, I'm not your enemy. I never have been, even when I _threatened to chain you to your bed_ - so to speak." She quietened. The memory of him whimpering in bed surfaced, and she found it repulsive, simply because it made him seem all the less grounded.

They would need him to be grounded if they were to survive tomorrow. Yet she wanted him to know - to understand.

"Look, I know we're complete strangers, and we don't give a damn about each other." She bit her lip, hoping her expression was stern enough that he might believe her. "If you need to talk, about... oh, about anything bothering you, I can lend an ear and forget all about it afterwards."

_Okay, maybe I do care - just a little. I did spend a whole night sewing his insides back together._

Lear seemed to be seriously considering the offer - he looked up, and for a few seconds, stared at her with dazed, somewhat unfocused eyes. Then the moment passed, and he shook his head dismissively. "I'm fine. I'll _be_ fine, tomorrow. Thanks, though."

She wondered if she was more disappointed or worried at his response. Certainly, someone who had screamed and cried and fought so - in a daze, no less - would be suffering some form of emotional turmoil.

_The books say to let them come in their own time. To not force. But how much time do we have before his internal struggles take him down?_

Anarei found she could only gaze at Lear in silence, in the hopes that her sentiments might pass to him. She wanted to reach out, to comfort somehow, but he was so strange to her - so foreign. She settled for a smile. "Of course you'll be fine. Strong, strapping young man like you - I'm sure you'll heal." She straightened, idly interlacing her fingers. "But if there ever comes a day when you're _not _fine, remember the offer stands."

Lear's eyes drifted shut, as his lips curved into a faint little smile. "Mm, I'll keep that in mind." He opened his eyes, and she realised, for once, that they seemed to be touched by his smile. The sight struck some measure of warmth in her core. "I'm calling it a day, then." He stood with a tired sigh, but inclined his head courteously before moving towards the stairs. "Rest early and rest well, Anarei."

She watched as he strode away, turning only a touch in her seat. "Good-night, Lear." The murmur was quiet, barely perceptible - but it would suffice.

The moon surfaced from beneath its cloak of clouds, casting streams of silvery light into the room through the window. She gazed up.

_Oh, guardians, watch over us tomorrow._

* * *

**Authors' Notes:**

**Em: **Another chapter, another barrage of information about our favourite (we hope) twosome! Well, I like them enough, anyway. But! Basic things to remember first-hand! Blizzard owns the Diablo-verse, and we own Lear and Rei and everyone else who doesn't belong in canon.

**Oph: **And we own most of Leah's characterisation. If there are things in there you don't quite understand, remember the following: one, we do take SOME things from canon. Two, Google is your friend. Three, if the above two fail to apply, ask us in a review!

**Em: **We do so love to hear responses from you lovely people. We know you're reading, too - the statistics page is our friend. We visit it a lot, and bring tea and cupcakes. Won't you join us? Pretty please with sugar on top?

**Oph: **To those who HAVE reviewed, especially to **Patches** who reviewed the last chapter, thank you! We're so glad that we've made it easy for a non-DIII-player to understand our story.

**Em: **One thing you can definitely look forward to is how we try to make sense of everything canon - from a magical and non-magical perspective. Hopefully, you enjoy that, because it's something we do in an effort to differentiate ourselves from basically taking canon and putting it into our own words. We want to tell our own story, and those of our kids, too!

**Oph: **We realise this is another talky-schmalky chapter, but the next is going to be action-packed! Time for me to crack my knuckles and flex my fingers, eh, Em?

**Em: **I can say and do naught save to hug and cuddle Lear before you break him again. Poor boy. At any rate, I hope you guys have enjoyed this chapter - two chapters in three days, yo! Look forward to the next, and we'll see you guys again soon! Cheers!


	8. Chapter 7: Tainted Sanctity

**Chapter 7**

**Tainted Sanctity**

* * *

Footsteps and bird calls - the former close, and the latter further away in the woods beyond the narrow path that was their road. That was all she could hear.

The silence was deafening.

They'd made their way easily enough past the gates of town, past two half-asleep militiamen who had surely sat vigil through the long, cold night. Since the situation began to ease around the general vicinity of the town, the soldiers had found easier rest, though others were said to lie awake in fear for what they had seen -

Risen dead and the corpses of loved ones.

They were fortunate enough to have encountered none of the horrors on their way. It was early in the morning - dark and foggy, and the sun had barely begun to rise.

Anarei glanced down at their old, rusted lantern. It was held at a distance with an equally-aged handle, the soft, metallic creaking of its short chain occasionally breaking the silence. The candle within flickered briefly as a gust of wind blew past; the same rush of cold air flicked her bangs into her eyes. She sighed, brushing the offending tendrils back impatiently, then looked aside towards her companion.

_At least one of us apparently knows if there's something getting ready to take our heads off._

He'd said precious few words since they'd met at the entrance of their inn. The usuals were quickly done with - morning greetings and thoughtless inquiries about the previous night's sleep. Contrary to their responses, Anarei knew without a doubt that he'd had as much as trouble as she had falling asleep.

Her dagger rested firmly strapped to the side of her left hip, its hilt grinding against that of the corresponding sword; the other flanked her right side. She shifted the weight of her pack where it rested upon her shoulder, heard the stiff phials within clink against one another. He'd made a fuss about it before, checking to see if she'd brought the necessities.

_Honestly, is he the healer, or am I?_

Anarei kicked out at a tiny pebble in her path, watching as it bounced several feet ahead. A strange satisfaction arose. She kicked it again, then let out a faint chuckle. Her current occupation reminded her of a rather infantile game she'd used to play with Taranis - kicking pebbles, pretending they were the shrunken heads of their enemies.

She wondered, for a moment, what Taranis would think of her kicking Leah's head down the path - again, and again, and again.

_He's always been partial to pretty, perky girls. Gods, she's irritating, with that fake smile and that fake voice, and those fake teeth from her fake good-cheer._

"How much longer until the next demon?"

There it was - the fake cheer. It came off as something of a taunt, and Anarei could hear the smugness in her voice.

Her companion snarled softly. The low sound was audible to her, but likely not to the other woman, who was trailing behind them by a good number of paces. "Rest assured, Lady Leah, I'll _tell_ you when it's time to brace yourself." His voice was laced with dry sarcasm, then he dropped it to mutter quickly to Anarei. "I _still_ think we should just lure out the demons. We can use bait."

_The way he'd said that, one might think he really were inclined to use _her _as a bait._

Anarei glanced aside at him, barely able to keep the wry smile from curling her lips as she nodded just once at his morbid jest. She kept her voice equally soft, sidling closer to his side and reached towards his abdomen - she imagined it looked as if she were merely checking his injuries, though her hand fell short of touching him. "Ground rules. If we get into trouble that's too much to handle, we both run for it."

He nodded solidly. "And we run ourselves out before worrying about anyone else." He leaned towards her, and lowered his voice further. "I'm sure it wouldn't be suspicious if we had to leave her behind while we're running for our lives."

"Hey, I hope you're paying attention to the way ahead, sir."

He growled aloud this time. "I'm not your hound."

_So much for not being a hound. He growls like one._

Anarei bit her lip, then shook her head gently before straightening, though she kept her voice low. "Let's hope we don't run into large packs of demons or other unholy things, then."

She wasn't quite sure she believed her own words.

"We'll _walk_ into them in a short while, if we keep with this pace." He sneered, then; turned aside to address the other woman lagging behind. "_You_ will see them in maybe double the time, Lady Leah, if you keep falling back."

Leah only chuckled at that, much too pleasantly.

_Obviously she's not too bothered about this. I only hope she's somewhat proficient with that bow._

The hilt of her sword was cold to the touch as Anarei lowered her hand - its twin was strapped to her other side. She wondered for a moment how it was possible that the old man was still alive. It had occurred to her multiple times before that they were heading into a potentially fruitless mission.

_A waste of time and resources. How much could she love her uncle, really, if she'd taken this long to realise he was missing?_

Anarei bit her lip. _Some kind of filial piety. I'd never wait this long if Uncle Veive had gone missing - nor would da or anyone else._

The cathedral rose into the scenery as their path came to an end - a mass of collapsed wood and stone, its iconic dome was drowned in a musky light that did little to smother the ominous air surrounding the area. It looked every bit like the pictures she had seen - illustrations depicting the corruption and destruction woven by the Lord of Terror decades ago.

Suddenly cold, Anarei rubbed at the sides of her arms. "I wonder how many times it's been rebuilt." She muttered grimly. _Two? Three? It's been destroyed, rebuilt, destroyed again, rebuilt again._

The healer wasn't particularly susceptible to superstition the way so many old wives were in Virkove, but even she had to admit that perhaps the grounds had been tainted beyond remedy.

"Best ready your weapons, ladies." Her companion sighed, openly expressing his reluctance to go about their current task even as his eyes narrowed and his gaze sharpened. "What do you know about these... slow-moving undeads, Lady Leah?"

"There are two main kinds." Leah replied, her fingers deftly checking the string of her bow, then adjusting the strap of her quiver. "Ones where you have to kill with a blow to the head; they'd go after you even if they're beheaded. Other ones are more... normal." She tested the bowstring, emitting soft _twang_ as it was released. "Try not to get bitten."

_There's nothing normal about risen dead prowling the realm._

Anarei grunted in response, once again lowering her hand to the hilt of her sword. "Let's just go."

The doors of the cathedral were swung wide open. Broken pews and benches were pushed to brace what walls remained standing, a brittle formation that looked as if it would fall any second. Dusted with ash and dirt, the long, heavily-embroidered rug running the length of the cathedral from door to pew gave silent direction; draping heavily into the great chasm that marked their entrance into the underbellies of the cathedral, it, too, had seen better days.

A fallen star, the townsfolk had said.

_Whatever it is, it's got to be buried way under the place._

Anarei gritted her teeth as she peered into the gloomy depths beneath the cathedral's torn stone floors. The dull grey stones were broken and cracked, the occasional piece of rubble dislodging to fall, unhindered, into the levels below. She peered into the relative darkness, caught the whisper of blue amidst black, then took a step back.

"How many levels down?" The chasm looked _endless_ to her eyes. She hoped it was just the darkness playing tricks on her eyes.

Lear sidled up to her - somehow, he had managed to lag a few steps behind her. "Too many." He shrugged. "But there are things waiting to take our heads off just inside. Surely you can _hear_ it."

The soft clicking of bones - _moving _bones. Vague mutterings and husky grunts that sent shivers down her spine, raising the hair on her arms. Was that what it was?

"Mm." Anarei flexed her fingers, hoping it was a sufficient response - she didn't think Lear would appreciate her inexperience with fighting hellspawn at present.

_Most healers aren't even trained to fight. I just got lucky, and who have I fought? My grandfather, my uncle, Taranis?_

For the first time that morning, Anarei wondered if that would be quite enough to survive the ordeal that was sure to follow.

A sharper click, then its echoes followed. "Well, it's not an impossibly long way down." Anarei turned to see Lear kick a few more broken pieces of floor tiles into the hole. He tilted his head towards her, evidently paying no heed to the other woman behind them. "Seems like a big enough landing space, too. What d'you think... twenty feet, maybe less?"

"It's a long drop." She cautioned, her voice grim.

_We could climb, but that'd take too much time - and if they have archers down there, we might as well just drop in and die that way._

Anarei pursed her lips. _But surely, Lear would've considered that with his widespread vision._ "I don't suppose you brought any rope? You were too busy checking my supplies for potions. Seems there's something we forgot after all."

He gave her a flat look - clearly unimpressed, and either bored or exasperated. She got the distinct feeling that he thought she was stupid.

It wasn't a very pleasant feeling. She wanted to protest - _I'm a healer at seventeen, damn it!_

She glanced down, caught sight of the rug, noted how it drifted lazily into the depths below - then chided herself anyway. _Gods, damn it. I _am _stupid._

"Start climbing, gut boy." Anarei scowled; Lear scowled right back. Her newfound irritation was not entirely fair to him, and she knew it. Still, she felt her cheeks burn and hated herself for missing something that obvious.

_Oh, well. Can't be helped now._

She cleared her throat, forced herself to offer a wry, apologetic sort of smile, and hoped he understood. The lump in her throat told her she meant the apology more than she knew. "...Shall we?"

He grunted in annoyance, but his voice was forcibly apathetic. "Whatever. The sooner we get this out of the way, the better."

"I'll go in after him." She wondered if the other woman had enjoyed watching their exchange from the back; Leah certainly _sounded_ like she was enjoying herself. "You can bring up the rear, young miss."

Anarei glanced aside towards her companion - the one she _trusted_, anyway. He only shrugged, and turned on his heels, presumably to check and secure the rug.

She wondered if he'd been more wounded at her snapping at him than she'd initially thought.

Shaking the guilt aside, she turned her head back, slanting her hazel gaze upon Leah. The older woman was still smiling; Anarei found she wanted to push her into the chasm. It made no sense.

She tried for a threatening scowl, though she imagined it only came off impatient as she jerked her head towards where Lear was bent over the rug. "The both of you can go ahead and start the party, then." She lowered her voice. "Stay alive."

Lear turned back, and the corner of his lips twitched ever so slightly at her softened voice. "As long as they don't hear us," he said in a similarly-lowered tone, "Maybe they'll think it's nothing... this floor probably caves in a bit, once in a while."

And as if to test his theory, he grabbed a hold of the rug, wound it around his left forearm several times, and hopped into the chasm - a little too swiftly for comfort.

She squinted into the darkness as Lear disappeared. One hand moved to her throat - she swallowed, hoping all was well.

_If there's no sound, it should be alright. Unless they silenced him immediately - in which case, this one's next._

Anarei glanced back towards Leah, flexing her fingers. Her voice came out crisper than she'd expected - harder, and rather less reflective of the anxiety she really felt. "Your turn."

Leah grinned - a grin that would have been sincere, if not for the haughty way in which her chin was tilted. "Thank you, young miss." She strolled past her and descended into the darkness, her petite frame moving nimbly as she shuffled down the makeshift ladder.

Anarei bit her lip, then let out a quiet sigh. Now that she was alone, she found herself able to breathe - if only for a few brief seconds. She bunned her hair up, tucking a loose curl into the tight knot, striding to the edge to wait.

Suddenly the clicking noise grew louder, clearer, _closer_. A sharp scrape of metal, the sound of bone shattering, wood splintering, something clattering onto the stone floor, skulls bouncing off the walls of the chasm. A faint yelp from Leah, a dull _thump_ followed by a weak groan from her other companion.

Then all was still once more.

_What in the blazing hells is going on down there?_

Anarei gnashed her teeth together. Somewhere between trying as hard to see in the darkness, and listening for any sign of Lear's wellbeing, she'd fallen onto her knees by the opening. Her fingers clutched the broken tiles, and after a moment, she dared herself to breathe.

Her voice echoed into the chasm as she hissed into the chasm. "Everything okay down there?"

The sounds of stones being ground against each other and a hiss, and the interior of the chasm was illuminated. Leah was holding the torch; Lear was peering directly up at her and massaging a spot on his forehead. "Just get yourself down here."

Despite the blatant irritation upon his face, Anarei found herself smiling in relief. She shook her head, then grabbed a hold of the rug and began to climb.

She'd gotten about three quarters of the way down when the rug - scorched, burnt near threadbare with large patches ripped away to shreds - gave way. She bit back a shriek, gasping as she stretched to grasp at something, _anything _to keep from falling.

Her fingers closed about nothing but air - and so she fell.

The magnificent smack of flesh upon ground told her she'd made it without breaking anything; yet for some reason, the landing had been softer than she'd anticipated.

"You sisters _both_ have a penchant for falling _and_ being heavier than you look, huh?"

_Oh, good gods. What have I done?_

She stared down at Lear, her eyes wide. From where she had him sandwiched between her thighs and the floor, her face merely inches from his, he looked distinctly ruffled. Yet, even as his cheeks began to redden - or was that just the torchlight? - he managed to retain the flat, unamused expression upon his face.

"Sorry." She choked, only slightly aware that the air was getting hotter around them. Her own cheeks, she was certain, were tomato-red - and if they weren't, they surely _felt _it. _Move, Rei. Move!_

She thought she heard the other woman's giggles, but it sounded somehow distant. "Oh, my! It _was_ a good idea that I came down first... imagine the kind of things you two could get up to -"

_Stupid heavy northern girl. Stupid heavy bones. Stupid rug. Stupid insipid bitch of a southerner. Stupid Lear - why'd you have to be standing below me? Stupid, stupid Anarei._

She rolled off him, swallowing - then hoped her voice did not betray her embarrassment as she grunted. "Are you okay?"

He only replied with a low hiss as he straightened to his feet, shook his hair back in place - or back _out of _place, as messily-windswept as his hair usually was - and simply snatched the torch out of Leah's hand before walking off briskly. "Let's just get on with it."

* * *

She blinked.

Still dark, still no sunlight.

She blinked again, the fingers of her hands clenched about the hilts of her swords.

Nothing but the dim, dying lights upon the walls. Still, those lights were bright to her eyes - she wondered if they couldn't have been kinder so as to cloud the bodies in shadow, keep them from her sight.

But kindness was not in abundance, even in the supposedly holy sanctums of the Tristram cathedral.

She saw the bodies - villagers, young and old, as well as members of the clergy. Killed, broken, torn open to reveal sinew and bloodied flesh. Tortured. It was gruesome, terrible to behold - she'd wondered before with every passing corpse if she'd ever seen _this_, or _that_. It hurt her mind, strained her heart - so she stopped. Ceased to wonder.

_No point in thinking about what you could've done, anyway. These people were doomed from the start._

She'd wanted to run - the sentiment only deepening with every step they took, deeper and deeper into the chasm. It was inevitable that they'd eventually come to face the prowling undead, but she hadn't expected them to come in such numbers, nor strength. Some showed recognition in the depths of their eyes - eyes that were once human, eyes that had surely, once, gazed upon friends and family with love.

_Once human. They were all once human, and we're cutting them down._

The gash in the side of her arm itched - the result of hesitance in cutting down the mass of brittle bones that formed a skeletal warrior; she refused to scratch at it. Instead, she swallowed - her parched throat burned in complaint. There - there was that rising surge of panic that had, for hours now, threatened to spill her over the edge. She swallowed again, painfully aware that there would be more to come.

_More guilt. Gods, the guilt... _

"Hey, keep up."

He had called out to her - her, and not Leah, as the other woman had dropped back to provide ranged support from behind - without turning around or breaking his stride; his tone was plain and mild. She'd noticed he hadn't so much as glanced twice at the broken bodies. Yet once or twice, where there lay the occasional beheaded victim, she thought she saw him look doggedly away, though the strain in his face then became visible to her, even in the relative darkness.

But now he stopped; still looking ahead, Lear spoke up, his tone was urgent despite its mildness. "Lady Leah..." He started taking steps _back_. "...I'm thinking it's time you send your arrows flying again."

Leah let out a petulant, impatient sigh, but Anarei heard the clattering of arrows in her quiver nevertheless. "Where are they?"

"Towards the ceiling; though if you miss, you'll just land amongst the hoard."

He sounded much closer, and Anarei realised that he had retreated enough to stand _beside_ her. She glanced up to him, felt her brows furrow.

_Most people with his injuries shouldn't be ready for battle - gods know he's probably better off resting. _Anarei peered at her companion, watched his hands and the way he appeared so ready for battle despite his healing injuries. He _had _cut down a good few - as many as he could've managed, given his condition. Yet, she couldn't quite shake the feeling that he'd duck behind her at any moment to avoid a blow - the thought was both unnerving, and relieving.

Her grip of her sword tightened as Leah let loose her first arrow. A feral screech, then a faint buzz as a bluish spark danced and rippled in the dark.

Then came the bellowing and pounding footfalls, and the three found themselves face-to-face with a hoard. Not moments later, Anarei found herself standing as the wall between her assailants and her companions.

She growled - out of panic, or anger? - as she scissored away the outstretched arm of their first assailant with her crossed swords. Barely making out the gauntness of its splotchy, grey-veined face, she slashed at its chest, kicked it back, then retreated to the other two. She cried out, a touch more shrilly than she'd have liked. "So many!"

Again, and again, she slashed and hacked, praying her strength would hold. The undead hordes were endless, or seemingly so. In the deafening chaos of the battle that ensued, Anarei wondered if her companions had even heard her cry.

A booted foot crashed into the face of another undead in front of her - what looked to be formerly a middle-aged peasant woman - and she heard the skull crack before the body crumpled. "Didn't want to scare you." Lear's voice was unfailingly mild and flat, even with its hint of breathlessness. He drew his arm backwards, his knife slashing open the belly of a larger, bloated demon as it released a roar of feral hunger. "Let's hope the lady can take care of the bat -"

He stopped short as the innards of the demon erupted from the gash, the dying monster's explosive final assault knocking him almost off his feet.

She'd only just stabbed the remains of a militia member in the back, pinning its body into the ground with her blade and spearing through its rotting flesh into a crack between tiles. It grappled at her legs, but she kicked at the hands, then reached out to grasp at Lear's arm. "Be careful, damn it!"

She felt something yield within her grip - something soft, sticky and slimy. It slid about her arm, crawling, upwards, upwards. Resisting the urge to scream, she waved her arm violently, biting down on her bottom lip.

It was a worm - one the size of a small eel, with a translucent body revealing pulsating, writhing insides. She'd barely had time to register how its corded form cut into her flesh, digging deep, before she wrenched it off and flung it away. The searing sensation upon her forearm made her look down upon the angry red, acid-scorched marks tainting her skin.

She gnashed her teeth together, pushing the pain aside and reached to tug her sword free of the ground. Her previously-trapped undead foe stirred, but went still as blackened blood seeped through its chest to coat the tiles.

In the heat of the moment, she thought she saw Leah firing away; the woman's mark was true.

_Good. At least she's not here on a free tour._

Anarei turned, knowing she would find Lear fighting his own share of monsters. Instead, she was greeted with the rotting face of an adolescent's reanimated corpse, his skin sagging and blotchy, the texture of curdled milk - and he _smelled_ it, too.

For one horrifying instant, she gazed into his gaping jaws, and saw the mess of loose teeth, peeling tongue, bits of flesh and clothing... and a fingertip.

Then the jaw shifted, some teeth broke loose - and the top jaw, along with everything above it snapped clean off. The moulting tongue flopped once and the fingertip fell to the floor, before the body crumpled.

The booted foot lowered and stomped hard upon the floor. "_Watch _yourself!"

She was panting, only slightly aware that her shoulders trembled. Had she cried out aloud? Lear's face did little to help - impatience and irritation lingered upon his gaze, his jaw tight as his breaths wheezed through his teeth. She swallowed, suddenly wounded.

_I lost track of my surroundings trying to help you. A thank you would be nice._

"Fine." Anarei bit her lip, then turned quickly away. She wasn't in the mood to argue.

From behind, Leah let loose another arrow. Anarei watched as it found its mark in the forehead of a child - young, far too young. The remains, bloodied and bruised, fell lifeless to the ground, having died its second death. And then there was silence once more.

There was an odd, sickeningly-sweet fragrance in the air. It reminded her of embalming potions and the herbs used to pack the body cavity once all life had left it.

Funeral preparations, they'd called it - one last occasion in which the deceased might be adorned in finery.

The smell made her sick.

She lowered her gaze, flicking her swords idly. The blood dripped and splattered, dotting the sizzled silhouettes of the gutted worms that lay in heaping piles upon the floor. Her arm stung, still - she wondered how Lear had fared and recalled having noticed burn marks on his arms and chest. The fabric of his clothes had been singed away.

_This is an expensive quest. If we get out of here alive, we'll have to pay a damn fortune getting new things._

Leah was busying herself with recovering some of her arrows, ripping them out of corpses - though Anarei noted that she had subtly closed the eyes of the fallen as she went about her task. "So," she tugged on an arrow that had been embedded deep into an old man's skull, her tone much too bright, considering her current occupation. "Shall we move on and find my uncle, now?"

"For the sakes of the holies, Lady Leah..." Lear was leaning against a relatively un-splattered patch of wall, attempting to catch his breath. "Giving us a few more seconds isn't going to _kill_ anyone."

"I propose a five minute break." Anarei grunted as she sheathed her swords, looking up towards Leah - she hoped her expression was sufficiently stern.

_Not like any one of us can move effectively right now, anyway. I need to think about this - think about all the people we've killed. _She paused, chiding herself. _Not killed - they were already dead. Put to rest._

Leah shrugged carelessly in the manner of a response, then turned her back and continued her task.

_I suppose that means yes._

Her sling-bag lay in the corner, vials filled with reds tumbling loosely from its depth. In her haste, she'd thrown it aside, thinking only to lighten her load during the battle. One of the vials had shattered, leaving a bright red stain over the bottom of the bag. She fished about gingerly, extracting half the broken vial - a few good swallows remained, swirling within the glass.

"Do you know if we're headed in the right direction, Miss Leah?" Holding the half-vial steady, she grasped the strap of her bag, slinging it lazily over her shoulder, then made her way silently towards her male companion.

"Ask the hound. We'd _better_ be heading the right way."

He looked up to throw a glare at the older woman, but did a double-take as he noticed Anarei's approach.

"...What?" He scowled, edging away while nursing a burn on his shoulder - she knew the gash there was still healing.

Anarei arched an eyebrow. Lowering her bag, she jerked her head towards a block of broken rubble directly beside him. She wondered if he'd caught her intent. "Sit."

He frowned, and shook his head insistently. "We're moving off again soon. Let's just push onwards and save the fixing until the end." And for the umpteenth time, he added, "The sooner this is over and done with, the better."

For some reason she couldn't quite fathom, that made her mad. _Very _mad.

"You're injured. On top of that, you're _still _healing from those other injuries you'd acquired from before we'd met. If you want to die so badly, I'll tie your noose myself when we get out there, but right now, I'm not about to let you die in here, because if you do, we're one fighter short." She reached into her bag, pulling out a roll of gauze, then hissed, "_Sit!_"

For a still, silent moment, Lear simply gawked at her in disbelief; then he pouted, let out an almost-petulant "hmph" beneath his breath, and dropped himself onto the piece of rubble.

From somewhere further off, Leah laughed heartily. "Oh, he's _such_ a good boy!" A giggle-filled pause. "You two are just _adorable_."

She would've chuckled at Lear's obedience, but the other woman had knocked the amusement clean out of her. Still, she managed a smile, faint, but genuine, as she knelt beside him. The gauze in her hand was damp, crimson from where it had sopped up the remains of her broken vial. It wasn't until she'd grasped a hold of his arm to keep it steady and pressed the potion-laden fabric over his burn that she'd muttered, "I wasn't _really _going to kill you. But thanks for listening."

He barely flinched as the potion worked on his burn, only frowned and tightened the muscles about his jaw. He lowered his eyes, and as if at a loss for what to say, simply muttered back, "I know how to tie a noose."

_Didn't he feel that? No, he did - just being stoic, I guess. _

She was not looking forward to working on her own arm afterwards - it would sting; she wondered if it would hurt more, or less than his words at present. _Tie your own noose, eh? How morbid._

Equally lost for words, she simply patted his burn with her cloth, watched as the skin slowly reformed. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted that Leah had moved on and was poking around corners. Still, just to be safe, she lowered her voice. "And let all our hard work go to waste?"

She decided then that she'd never let him hurt himself. It was a matter of pride - healers' pride.

He neglected to give her an answer, and stood up before she was finished repairing his burn. "Just take care of yourself, girl." He glanced towards Leah, who had discovered a torch held in a metal ring bolted to the wall, and lit it while standing on the tips of her toes. "I'll make sure the Lady Miss doesn't get her head eaten."

She felt her heart lurch. She wasn't quite sure why she felt so frustrated, but she got to her feet anyway. The vials clinked roughly in her bag as she slung it thoughtlessly over her shoulder.

_Ouch. Bloody burns._

"Move on." She grunted, then turned and strode off past Leah.

_Not like they won't eventually force me to take the lead anyway._

It got brighter as they moved along. The air felt less stuffy and stagnant, and once in a while, when they had rounded a tight corner, a small gust of wind would nip at their ankles. Twice they encountered smaller groups of undead, but Leah, in the now-better-lit chambers and corridors, proved to be competent.

"Stay closer." Lear muttered as he pushed on Anarei's shoulder and drew her back. "We're almost there."

Anarei jerked her shoulder, nudging him away. "I'm fine." The low hiss was nowhere near pleasant. "Let's just get this over and done with."

_I want to get out of here as much as you do. But really, you should just stop pretending that you care who gets out alive and who lies dead when this is over._

It occurred to her then that her assessment of him wasn't quite fair. Hadn't he shown that he'd cared - to some tiny extent, at the very least? But she was too tired, too emotionally drained - and what was the point of feeling guilty if she hadn't said it aloud, anyway?

The ornate doorway rose above them, curling over a long flight of descending steps. A warm, golden glow bathed the bottom-most steps in light - somewhat ill-fitting of the ominous air that seemed to surround them. She took a deep breath, then glanced aside towards her companions.

Lear just stared at the wall - or rather, he seemed to be staring _through_ it - before he sighed. "You don't happen to know how to fire arrows that chase their own victims, do you, Lady Leah?"

The woman in question let out a sharp sound, half a snort and half a scoff. "I am not a demon hunter, nor am I of Amazonian descent. I'm also not of the Sisterhood residing in the mountains to the east." She dropped her voice, her tone becoming smoother. "I am but an archivist."

Lear rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the lesson." He turned to Anarei, sighing again in frustration. "So... we don't really have much of a choice. There's something... bigger, and a hoard in there, of similar size to the largest one we'd encountered, and I don't remember seeing explosive vials in your bag."

"It can only hold so many things." Anarei peered at Lear - she had a distinct feeling he knew she wasn't too happy with him. "And there's nothing for it now, anyway, since we won't be turning back."

"If you two go ahead, I can cover you from the back," offered Leah; her voice, for once, had taken on a more serious cast, the lilt within having diminished. "Otherwise, it's as the young miss said - nothing for it now." She grinned, the annoying sing-song tone returning once more. "You did your job well, hound. And you've proved to be a very useful teammate, young healer miss."

_What, are you writing us a eulogy already?_

Anarei narrowed her eyes, then unsheathed one of her swords. The metallic hiss made her cringe - it seemed so much louder somehow now that they were facing danger and potential death. Still, she forced herself to look Leah in the eye. "If neither of us make it up to the surface, Miss Leah, you can rest assured you won't, too." A faint smile graced her lips. "I don't know how much of a fight you can put up with just your bow, after all - despite you being a very good aim, it's probably a better idea for us to stick together lest _one of us _gets mobbed."

She shrugged. "I wouldn't get mobbed if you clear my way. I _am_ a ranger, you know."

_Like we'd clear your way if you left us here to die._

Lear let out a low growl, ending her train of thoughts. "If there's no other option but for us to charge in there..." He unsheathed his own weapons, the knives emitting a higher-pitched, smoother hiss compared to Anarei's swords as they were drawn. "...Then let's just _do_ it."

She pursed her lips. "Let's go, then."

They filed silently down the stairs, though she imagined each footfall to be excessively loud. By the time they'd found their way onto the landing - a balcony overlooking a connecting corridor of sorts, she wondered if they'd awoken even more undead to battle.

_Just what we need._

Her thoughts were once again rudely interrupted by the sounds of crumbling stones. A cry - that of an older man, hoarse and frail, resounded in the air.

She saw him just then, a balding, hunched-over figure that hobbled across the stones, his walking stick clicking heavily with his haste.

The sudden explosion that broke out behind her was close - so close that she felt the gust of hot wind at the back of her neck. The sound reverberated for a moment, before it was drowned out by shrieks of hunger; those of a hoard of skeletons and rotting corpses, now advancing upon them.

"Damn it, Anarei! FOCUS!" Lear began to lower his leg, before he grunted and swung it into another skeletal warrior, slamming his boot straight into its ribcage.

She flinched as a skeletal warrior swung its spear of bone directly at her face. The sting across her jaw brought her back into the situation - she'd felt the powdery tip against her skin, felt the warmth of seeping blood.

Growling, she rubbed her bracer impatiently across the cut, spinning quickly on her heels to slam the hilt of her sword into the warrior's exposed neck. It fell to the ground in a pile of dusty bones.

Anarei recoiled from the impact, found her footing, squared her shoulders and readied her swords for another assault - that was when she saw it.

_It_. A huge skeleton warrior - at least three times the size of those she had been cutting down. Even from her distance, she could see that the bones were unblemished - unmarked by blades or impact - and shimmered dully, like an amber flame burning within lanterns of mother-of-pearl.

She heard Leah cry out behind her, likely from shock or fright, and barely stifled a gasp of her own.

_No, no, no. Lear can't do it. Leah _won't.

It dawned upon her just then that there was no one else. No one else, but _her_.

_Oh, gods. I'm going to have to do it._

The tip of the warrior's sword grazed the stone floor as it advanced, the sharp metallic screech echoing off the walls. She was deaf to everything else - saw little beyond the gleam of ruby that made up the warrior's eyes.

_Can't see Lear, and the other one's not going to be much use._

She gritted her teeth, drawing her second sword. _Here goes._

The warrior lifted its sword to parry as she thrusted forward - it was as strong as it looked. She backed against the wall, wincing as the crushed stones pressed into her back, barely managing to duck away before the warrior's sword came down with a heavy crash. The rubble fell around her feet - she sidestepped what she could and darted away.

_Fight back. Fight back, don't keep running._

It was coming for her. Dragging its sword again, readying to strike. She took a final step, and just as it struck, she turned and lifted her right sword to deflect the blow.

Her assailant threw her back with what seemed like an effortless force. She fell back with a grunt, withdrawing her hand after the sword flew out of her grasp and clattered heavily upon the floor. Before she could find her balance again, the warrior struck.

Something wrapped around her waist, jerked her back roughly. She cried out in panic as her foot gave way beneath her. Her vision blurred for an instant, and before she could re-orientate herself, she heard the sound of the warrior's sword crashing into the floor somewhere behind her, felt the tremor beneath her feet.

The pressure around her body eased and she began to draw in a breath to calm herself, but was rudely interrupted as she was shoved roughly forward.

The murmur in her ear was hoarse and breathless, yet commanding. "Get your weapon."

_He caught me?_

She dashed for her weapon, her head swimming. The heavy clicking of bone-upon-stone told her she was being pursued; in the heat of the moment, she nonetheless failed to dispel the thought that Lear had _chosen _to help her.

Even as her fingers closed about the hilt of her sword, she wondered if he hadn't moved to catch her _earlier_, too - when she'd fallen.

The warrior caught up.

Locked into the corner, it occurred to her that she had no way - _nowhere _to run.

_Incapacitate it - keep it in one place. Then you can end it. _

The warrior took a step forward, raised its sword - she ducked away from its swing, felt the crumbling pebbles brush past her back as they dribbled from the wall, and found herself looking at its leg when she recovered.

_Bones, bones. Two for the shin, two for the forearm. _

She had an opening - or literally, two.

The warrior released a deafening roar as she plunged her sword between the pair of bones in its lower leg, embedding the sword-tip into a crack in the stones. She caught the glint of steel as the warrior's sword came for her again; she bent, drew her dagger, then moved to sink it between the bones of its arm.

She missed.

The warrior's sword needled the side of her thigh, drawing blood. She barely contained a shrill yelp of pain.

_Do it, do it now - or it's your head that'll be next._

She pounced, kicking off on her good leg, and finally managed to slide her dagger's blade between the warrior's arm-bones. The trapped demon flung its free arm at her - she ducked again, wrenching the limb down as she jerked upon the hilt of her dagger.

As the warrior lost its balance and toppled forward, Anarei raised her third and final blade. She swung it down hard, severing its neck.

And the silence returned.

* * *

**Authors' Notes: **

**Oph: **Well, this chapter's been a bit of a wait for you all who have been... well, waiting. Time to rip into some awesome action now, eh? Only both our real-lives have been ripping into action lately, too... with my studies and training and Em's job changes. Something's gotta give.

**Em: **Only, we're not giving this up. EVAH. EVAH. But let's start by stating the obvious: We don't own the Diablo franchise or anything else FROM the franchise that is mentioned.

**Oph: **Again, though, we maintain the ownership of the original aspects that we've added to canon. Such as Leah's manipulative character. My bad, Leah fans.

**Em: **She's not that bad! Look how human she is, despite being a sneaky little b-

**Oph: **-bumpkin. Anyway, I also gotta make a disclaimer for myself: Em wrote a bigger part of this chapter, going as far as actually choreographing most of that fight...

**Em: **...which Oph then tweaked so it works. We agree I'm better at the romance and she's better at the fights. Either way, I wrote more because Rei-Rei is my kid - if y'all haven't figured that out already. But hey, we'll be gettin' into the thick of it with Lear again real soon, so you Lear fangirls can squee soon! Thanks so much for the reviews and favs, by the way, and give us some more if ye be kind and lovin'!

**Oph:** Reviews are like juice - we're going to keep writing anyway, just because we do love our storyline and our kids. But juice is tastier than water, just as your reviews and favs are going to make us that much more pumped to write! See you in the next chapter!


	9. Chapter 8: Guilt

**Chapter 8**

**Guilt**

* * *

Rosethorn Riffle's rooms were much less comfortable than those of the Slaughtered Calf. Lear leaned back in his chair, headless of its groan as its wooden joints shifted out of place - it was better than sitting in the lumpy mattress.

He sniffled and grimaced, wondered how many fervent smokers had made use of this room before him. The sound of his own irritated airways led him to remember what he had heard last night; the wall between his room and Anarei's was thin, after all.

She'd retired to her room in a state, obviously wearied in both mind and body. Nonetheless, she'd insisted upon seeing to it that the old man was unhurt. Afterwards, she'd crawled into bed. He imagined she'd fixed up her own wounds - eventually, anyway. But what really resounded was the way she'd cried; quietly, yet he witnessed it all. Saw her anguish as she'd laid awake, heard the whimpers as she'd tossed and turned in her sleep.

It annoyed him to no end. Between her conscious sobbing and her unconscious moaning, he didn't catch a wink of sleep.

And he knew she was _still_ going; she'd been breaking into tears sporadically all morning, since she'd awoken and gathered some books to read as she rested in her room.

He wasn't sure why she was in such distress. Perhaps she was homesick? Or maybe it was the way the old man seemed not of the soundest mind, the way he phased between being excited, confused and downright terrified - all in the span of a few seconds - when he first caught sight of his rescuers. He also considered the possibility of her being distinctly annoyed at Leah. Or at him.

The more he thought about it, the more confused and frustrated he got. For all he knew, she could've been crying because her injuries were sore. Those always hurt more the next day, after all.

He rolled his shoulders, gritting his teeth just a bit as the burns stung and his joints complained; his abdomen felt stiff and bruised inside, and his new scar tissues itched. His arms were folded over his chest, and he considered stretching them, before recalling the raw burns and cuts there and deciding otherwise.

He wondered how much time and distance he's lost with this setback, and wanted to kick himself for being blackmailed into such a petty errand. It was frustrating that the damned little witch knew things about him, and he had no idea how she found out about them in the first place. Then again, with all the days he'd slept away, he had to admit, grudgingly, that he wasn't surprised.

_Maybe you should've let her die in there... silence the healer, too, since she'd most likely be against that, however cool-headed she tries to appear. Then you'd be on your merry way by now, instead of having to occupy your time by breaking your brain and chair. _

Chair?

For an instant he was confused by the abrupt and sharp turn in his train of thought, and by the time he realised he was on the wrong end of the precariously-balancing chair, it was an instant too late.

He tried to jump off the chair before it brought him along with its fall, but his aching body only managed sluggish, half-hearted movements, and he crashed to the floor.

Grunting loudly, Lear crawled back to his feet, ignoring the pain from various old and new injuries. _Stupid pain. Stupid errand. Stupid confusion. Stupid witch of an archivist. _

He was about to curse the stupid crying, too, on the healer's part, but it wouldn't be fair - considering it had now stopped.

_Don't get too comfortable, now. It'll start again soon enough, and because you'd been anticipating it, you'll only get _more_ annoyed when it does. _

It was like a bloody leaking tap. _Just go and put a stop to it._

Fine. He would.

For a second he thought of just knocking on the wall and calling through it, but deemed that much too rude. Besides, she'd realise that he'd heard her all night, then, and as much as he did_ not_ care for Anarei - she needed to grow up, anyway - that would be needlessly cruel.

So he knocked on her door. "Anarei?"

She looked so _young _when she'd opened the door - just a timid and bashful girl with her face downcast, her eyes flickering up quickly before she lowered them again.

"I'm sorry." She swallowed - somehow it made him feel a little rueful to hear that she was so genuinely apologetic. "Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you."

Something more familiar flashed in his mind; he found his former emotions going out the window, and couldn't keep himself from dismissing her apology. "No, no. I must've startled you." He looked her over, taking in her messy hair, her puffy eyes, her wrinkled skirts. "How's your leg?"

"Hm?" She blinked once at him, before recognition flashed in her eyes. Her skirts rustled as she shifted her leg under the layers. "Fine. It's fine." She sniffled once, then dared to gaze up at him once more, her red-rimmed eyes taking in his face before moving to his shoulder and injured arm. Her voice was muffled. "How's your arm? I'm sorry I didn't see to you personally."

She'd been too tired to help both him _and _the old man - his own injuries had been minimal, anyway, and the Tristram healers had cleaned them up without much trouble. They did not, however, know of the raw scar tissues of his abdomen. If he _had _pulled a stitch inside or bruised anything important, the vial of potion he drank should have taken care of those well enough. At this point, he _really_ didn't need any more unwanted attention.

"I'm alright. Nothing to worry about." He brushed his hair back with his hand. "You're alright, otherwise? Haven't caught a cold, now, have you?"

Anarei bit her lip, her bangs falling into her eyes as she lowered her head again. "I'm _fine_." She likely noticed that he was unconvinced, and added, hastily, "Or will be, anyway. Don't worry about it - I'll be quiet."

_No point beating about the bush. You're annoyed and frustrated about this, remember? Put a stop to it. Just ask her. _"So which is it? Are you in pain? Or are you mad at Lady Leah or her uncle, or is it me?" His voice softened despite his lack of intention for it to do so. "Or perhaps you're homesick? Missing your siblings or your parents?"

She looked incredulous at his suggestions. As she lifted her head, he thought he saw a glint of defensiveness flash through her eyes - then it disappeared, and she backed a step into her room, her hand moving towards the doorknob, gripping it firmly.

He wondered if she was surprised that he'd asked. She certainly _looked _it.

"It's not that." The answer was succinctly made.

Her tone recalled recent memories - a still, cold night, the air filled with a different sort of smoky smell.

"...Could it be that you're still sore over having to kill?" He felt his brows furrow, but his voice failed to harden. He felt exasperated, yet there was a surprising lack of real annoyance. "For the sakes of whatever gods are out there, Anarei, those weren't even _human_."

Her sharp inhale was enough of a sign that he'd hit the mark. She stared at him, her hand tightening further upon the doorknob. He half-expected her to cry out again, but her voice was only faint; hoarse and helpless as she appealed to him, it was as if she didn't think he would understand at all. "They _used _to be, Lear."

"We did them a _favour_ by putting them out of their miseries. _You_ did. The dead should _remain_ dead, and all we did was set things right." There it was; the annoyance was returning - annoyance for her innocence, her idealism. Her naivete. "I'd have thought you'd be _proud_ of doing that for them, as one who's meant to heal and help."

She looked stung at his suggestion, her downturned lips pursing somewhat as her gaze lowered. The expression of hurt did not suit her face - yet it seemed almost permanently etched into her features as of late. Either way, she sounded resigned, evidently unwilling to argue in her own state of weariness. "Maybe we did. Maybe I should be proud. But right now, I'm _not _proud, and I'm not healing or helping anyone."

That look of weariness, that tone of despair - _you know it all too well, don't you? Eyes that had cried too much, seen too much loss; voices that had begged too hard, pleaded too long, screamed too loud. _

_My Lady. _Lear drowned out the welling emotions with cold anger - anger that this girl was making _him_ homesick.

"...Maybe you should go home," he offered. "Go back to your family - to your siblings in Lut Gholein, or go home to Virkove. You shouldn't be out here alone, or get tangled up in this kind of mess, in any case." His hands felt restless. He jammed them into his pockets. "No-one can make you stay; not even Lady Leah."

She seemed to consider him for a moment, the muscles of her throat tensing as she swallowed. "I likely should."

For a moment, he almost believed her - but then she managed a faint sort of smile, her brow furrowing nonetheless. He got the distinct feeling that she was aware of his intention to get rid of her. "I _should_, but that wouldn't be very decent of me. I wasn't made to run. Not like this."

"You shouldn't be out here, Anarei," he reiterated, the usual frustration and irritation surfacing alongside a new surge of desperation. "If _this_ keeps happening, you're not _meant_ to be out here."

He'd seen what happened to people who couldn't handle the stress, people who couldn't overcome the horror - they _broke_. Most of the time they never quite fully recovered. Some of the time they didn't recover at all.

She met his eyes, the hazel locking intently in her focus upon his green-and-grey. Her smile had taken on a touch of determination amidst the predominant worn anxiety. "Are _you _meant to be out here, then? I don't think now is the best time to be trusting to fate and destiny. We make our own way. We _have _to."

"So you'll keep cutting down these... things? These corpses that were once people, these poor souls that can't even find rest in death?" He pushed harder against her stubbornness, turning the focus back onto her. "You're willing to make your own way by carving through_ them_ and leaving a trail of bodies, are you?"

She was young again in that moment, her eyelids drooping as she shrank further into her room, the opening between them narrowing as she pushed her door forward a little. Her voice was faint in her quiet, helpless admission. "I don't know, Lear."

Lear sighed. "Go home, Anarei." He turned away, pushing his weight off the doorjamb. "You're too young to be involved in this sort of mess."

"_You_ go home." She'd responded so quickly, yet without a trace of defiance despite her words. It was all genuine resignation - after all, she certainly knew more than anyone that he didn't want to be there at all. "I know you have somewhere else to be, Lear. Go if you want, go if you need. We owe each other nothing. I'm staying, at least for now."

_Oh, but _do_ you? You have no place you really _can_ be, do you? _

"I can't." He hissed. Felt his facial features betray his anger and desperation - his brows furrowed, his eyes narrowed, and his jaw tightened. "Lady Leah's got me... she wants me to stay, wait for her word."

Anarei's expression softened a touch. Pity? No - it was a grave sort of sadness that she wore on her face. "You owe _her _nothing, neither."

He bit hard on his lip, considered explaining more of the blackmail to her, and found himself at a loss for how to even _begin_. "I don't, but she's making me pay, anyway." He looked aside once more. "Nevertheless, it's my own problem, and my own fault. You shouldn't concern yourself with it."

She watched him for a while - there it was again, the childlike hurt, the doe-eyed dejection. Already, the fire that had burned so bright in her spirit when they'd first met had begun to diminish. She nodded curtly, however, the gesture nonetheless dignified. "Okay, then."

Lear shifted after a somewhat awkward moment of silence. "...Well, okay."

He turned on his heels. Then he hesitated, stopped, and without quite knowing what he was doing, reached out and pressed his hand down upon Anarei's head. He rubbed it quickly, feeling her thick, coiled hair, and hurried back to his room without sparing a backward glance.

If the little witch of an archivist called on him now, she'd have to wait. He was going for a walk, exposure be damned.

* * *

The door fell shut with a click. Hastily, she glanced towards the wall she knew to be separating her and Lear's room, took a faint, deep breath that she prayed was silent.

Moments later, she heard his door open and close once again, the sounds of footsteps echoing in the musty hallway. She imagined he was headed out, either to meet with Leah, or to find some measure of calm. The footsteps were crystal clear - was that how loud her own sobs had been?

She felt her cheeks flush, and lifted one hand to rub at the feverish skin. Once again, she'd unwittingly revealed the depth of her vulnerability to him - this stranger whom she was sure had cared nothing for her.

_I can't believe he thought I was crying because I was in pain._

The broken flesh of her thigh stung as she made her way gingerly to her bed; she winced as she sank into the lumpy mattress, curled up in the sheets and nestled her face into the pillows. As much as the injuries had hurt, his perception of her had hurt even more.

_Do I look that weak?_

Squeezing her eyes shut as she shifted to lie on her side, she drew her legs up close against her chest._ I probably deserved that. I've been crying all night and all day and he'd heard it all. No wonder he thinks I'm a weak little girl._

She barely managed to suppress the resentful smile that curled her lips. _He even patted me on the head as if I were one._

Letting out a grunt, she slammed her fist into her pillow, then muffled the shrill grumble that followed after by pressing her face in. The smell of old feathers and lint made her choke. Gasping, she sat up, lifted the pillow and tossed it aside onto her chair, watching as it landed and released another puff of dust.

_Well, I'm going to have to sun that, I guess._

Normally, she'd have checked that the pillows and mattress were suitable - clean. One could pick up all manners of diseases and illnesses from unclean linens, after all. But this was war, and she'd had little choice - everyone suffered to a certain extent.

_This is nothing compared to those who've had to watch their loved ones reanimate before their very eyes - the deceased who have been mourned and entombed, those who had once loved, who had once been loved. I can take a few grimy pillows._

She gnashed her teeth together, swallowing the lump in her throat as the now-familiar pang of restless distress returned the mist to her eyes. The faces had haunted her in her sleep, taunted, begged, beseeched. Some had cried to be spared; others simply wanted to know why she had taken their lives.

They had all worn the same expression: anguish.

_No. I don't want to think about this right now. I can't._

She pressed a hand to her eyes, blocking out the dim light that streamed in through the crack between her drifting curtains. Bitterly, she wondered if Lear had been right after all - if she wouldn't really have been better off in Lut Gholein or in Virkove. It was war after all - she'd said it so many times, whispered the fact aloud to herself so that it seemed all the more real. And yet, at the frontlines, facing the remains of the people she'd vowed never to harm, she'd found herself helpless.

_Unable to help, unable to hurt. The problem is, you have to hurt to help this time, Rei._

Because, as much as she detested, loathed the idea of having to kill the risen dead, she knew without a doubt that Lear was right. They were gone - recently mourned or long deceased, the dead _had _to stay dead.

The trouble now, was finding the strength to do it.

Curling up closer into herself, Anarei wrapped her arms around her legs and forced back a sob. It wasn't until a second later that she realised Lear wasn't around to judge her for it - if he hadn't, already.

Alone, she cried.

* * *

"What do you mean, we have to go _back_ in there?"

"We've found Uncle Deckard, but the fallen star is still deeper down." Leah tilted her head where it rested in her hand, licking the fine crumbs of tea biscuits from her lips. "My uncle was after _that_."

"The old man was after a huge piece of rock?" Lear managed to keep his voice flat, rather than shouting in his outrage. This was ridiculous, even for blackmailing.

_Oh, it could be worse. _

He supposed it could be much worse.

"Don't talk about Uncle Deckard that way." She frowned in disapproval, patting the shoulder of the frail elderly man seated beside her. He seemed to have taken an immense interest in his cup of tea. "The fallen star was no ordinary comet. You know that well enough; you were in town when the undead began to spawn."

"...Magical rock or not, I'm not your lackey." Lear focused his mind's eye upon the old man - he was weak, probably senile. He likely had very limited control of his body, with the way his muscles spasmed and quivered, the way his joints were swollen and misaligned with age and use. When he had looked up to regard Lear, his eyes were glazed and unfocused, fogged by cataracts.

He looked close to death, and it would seem that he himself knew it. Was the fallen star of such importance to this weak old man, that he was compelled to go after it with such single-minded determination?

Then again, perhaps he really _was_ just senile. "You're telling me to _reawaken _an ancient evil, slay it, and go after a piece of rock. Are you even _hearing _yourself?"

"_You_ are the one who needs to listen better." Leah was unamused, by the way her eyes were narrowed, yet her tone was unfailingly mild and warm. "Shall I make it simple for you? We _have_ to go after the fallen star, for a chance to put a stop to this undead business. Leoric's throne and his cursed remains stand in the way. Therefore, you have to get rid of Leoric before you can get to the star, and in order to do _that_, you'll first have to reanimate those remains." She feigned encouragement in her voice, smiling condescendingly at him. "Do you understand it _now_, hmm?"

"This is ridiculous." He crossed his arms, resisting the temptation to overturn something.

"Well..." The old man finally spoke up; his voice was hoarse, and he coughed - the sound was wet with phlegm - before he managed to rasp, "...if you slay him, you'll be ridding our town, and indeed Sanctuary, of this evil forever. Take pride in this task that has been bestowed upon you, boy."

"I beg your pardon, Elder Cain, but this errand hasn't been bestowed as much as it was _forced down my throat_." Lear leaned back in his seat, ignoring his full mug of tea. "Your niece _forced_ me into this, sir. Does that sound right and just to you?"

"And should _your_ kind be talking about righteousness and justice, _hound_?" Her tone was sharp, yet she only smiled as sweetly as ever as she picked up another tea biscuit. "Think of it as _atonement_."

"What kind is he, Leah?" The old man asked with a soft, almost childish tone of inquisitiveness.

"A hound of the Viz-Jaq'taar, Uncle Deckard."

"Oh." Deckard Cain's face fell, somehow looking even more haggard than he did. "They killed so many, after the last war... those who were showing signs of weakness - mere _signs_..." He turned his cloudy eyes upon Lear; despite how weathered and faded they were, Lear caught the cold glint within them as the elder choked out his accusation. "You _killed_ them, and kept the horrors alive."

_Oh, come on. _

Lear rolled his eyes, and tried his best to ignore Deckard Cain's words. He was senile, for certain. Then he found himself unable to ignore the old man's words, after all, and started to think of a retort.

The retort died away even as he opened his mouth to speak - a mass of jumbled curls caught his eye from the largest window on the other side of the dining hall. The owner of the curls was striding purposefully into the inn - the peridot was coming for them.

Anarei looked a touch better than the last time he'd seen her - cleaned up, a little less haggard in appearance, seeming less likely to burst into tears. She gave him a faint smile that didn't meet her eyes as she made her way to their table, uninvited. Her tone was nonetheless light, if a little clipped. "On your first date?"

"Hardly." He grunted, failing to sound as apathetic as he'd intended.

"Oh, dear girl!" The old man was elated, at least, and Lear was thankful that he seemed to have forgotten about the previous conversational topic. "Come, sit. Stay a while and listen! There's tea and cookies."

"Hm." Anarei's response could not have been any more unimpressed. Nonetheless, her smile was gentle as she regarded the old man, a placating little thing so often seen on mothers. "I won't disturb you long, sir. I just wanted to see if you were feeling better."

"Nice of you to join us, Miss Anarei." Leah beamed at the younger woman as she nudged the chair beside her uncle with her foot, pushing it out from the table. "Sit. We're just telling your companion about... the next step."

Anarei arched an eyebrow, glancing towards him. Lear thought he saw a flash of confusion in her eyes, though it passed quickly and was soon replaced with resolve and resignation. She lowered herself onto the offered chair. "_Is_ there a next step?"

"There _are_ levels further down, and the hole in the ground was _still_ going." Leah's tone was matter-of-fact, as if there were nothing more obvious. She shrugged. "There's still the matter of the fallen star, which _made_ that hole, and - goes without saying - the demons along the way."

Anarei fixed her eyes upon him again, as if attempting to read his thoughts. Her brows were furrowed, though Lear noted her voice lacked any real venom. "What are the both of you hoping to accomplish by seeking out the fallen star? We only know so much - that it corrupted the dead and twisted them to some dark purpose."

"Precisely, young healer-miss." Leah grinned, her voice ringing, evidently - or apparently; he couldn't be sure about the woman anymore - impressed by Anarei's words. "And that's not going to stop any time soon. It only started after the star landed, so if there's a way to put a stop to this mess, we want to know about it."

"So you're using me - as what, a scout?" Lear couldn't quite believe just how bold and _shameless_ the woman was. "Just because you and your militiamen aren't willing, you're going to toss _me_ in there. I'm _that_ disposable to you, am I?"

The shameless little witch seemed unperturbed by his coarse words; though, thankfully, her smile became just a hint more subdued. "Well, you're my best bet at the moment, and I have you now. What makes you think I'll let you off so easily?" Her grin widened again. "In short, yes. You're useful enough, as a hound."

Anarei pursed her lips, evidently displeased with Leah's response. It was likely - he hoped, anyway - that she was irritated at the little witch's blatant disregard for life, as opposed to her harsh treatment of him. "That's not entirely fair to him either, is it, Miss Leah?" Her diplomatic tones did little to hide the edge of distaste in her voice. "Like it or not, this fallen star is Tristram's problem. Some like myself, may choose to stay, to help, but to coerce an unwilling person into doing your militia's dirty work seems rather low. You may turn other would-be helpers away in the future, if this were to get out."

"Oh, but it won't." She turned a sly little smirk onto Lear, and he scoffed, knowing he had no say in the matter when he was the one being blackmailed. "I don't deny that this is a low tactic, but it works... oh, _so_ well." She placed her hand onto the elderly man's back, before sidling up close to her uncle, leaning her head onto his shoulder. "The hound can pay by helping Tristram, right, uncle? If he helps us with this, will you forgive him?"

The old man nodded in a resigned sort of approval. "Alright... alright, Leah. But just this one, and just this once."

Anarei's eyes gleamed. How much had she understood? The peridot flared, and he could practically hear her in his mind. _Say something._ Y_ou don't need this old man's approval, nor do you need his forgiveness. Whatever you've done, this isn't your responsibility._

He almost felt bad for going against the girl's obvious wishes. "I'll go, but you're not coming."

Leah responded straightaway, "Fine by me, but I'll still escort you there and back."

"Fine."

Anarei had gone silent, now. Her lips thinned further as she glanced between him and the other woman; then she got to her feet and lifted her head. He heard her voice go cold. "Sir," she addressed Deckard Cain stiffly, but politely. "Shall we see that you're well now? I have other patients to see to, and not quite enough time for them all."

Lear watched as Deckard Cain allowed Anarei to help him out of his seat, and followed her obediently to a table in the far corner. Dropping his voice anyway, he snarled at his remaining company. "You're a bit of an evil genius, aren't you? I bet that's what you tell yourself when you look into the mirror every morning."

She giggled, sounding very much heartened by his words. "And you're pretty confident for a stray. You're a good one, too - makes me wonder..." She cut herself off, shaking her head gently. Her smile was sweet, but coy, and all too knowing. "Don't die in there. It'd be a bit of a waste."

"Be careful with what you wish for, Lady Leah." He stood and tried for a malicious smile. "I _may_ be defiant enough to die, just to provoke you."

He didn't want to hear another word from the woman, so he strode off, exiting the higher-classed inn at which the uncle-and-niece pair currently resided. The setting sun cast a vermillion glow over the town; he lowered his eyes to his feet as he walked.

"Wait."

He heard her long before he saw her - the way her footsteps echoed softly upon the stones as she took long, brisk steps after him. When Anarei caught up, her voice was low, retaining the gentler quality from their last talk, though he wondered if she were rather less calm than she appeared. "Lear."

He turned to nod at her. The movement felt stiff and uncomfortable, and he realised how tense his shoulders were. "Anarei. How's your assessment of Elder Cain?"

She shrugged her own shoulder helplessly. Her fingers worked to loosen the knot of the white healers' apron wrapped about her waist, only to tighten it again afterwards. "He's fine - there's nothing wrong with him that medicine can fix, anyway." Her gaze was hard, stern. "Are you really going to go back in there?"

He crooked a bitter, ironic little smile. "Would you believe me if I said I don't have a choice?" He widened his stride and turned back to the front. "I'm going back. You're not coming."

She sounded as affronted as she looked. "Aren't I?" Her footfalls grew louder as she made to catch up once more, hurrying until she fell into pace by his side. "You'll die in there."

He felt a small flare of annoyance in his chest for Anarei's verdict, the way she sounded so sure of herself, so convinced.

_Being a little overconfident now, aren't we? You _know_ there's a good chance you'll die. Or maybe you just don't care? _

"You can't go in there again." He rounded a corner and stepped over a loose paver without breaking his stride. "You won't be able to _stand_ it. I don't want to have _you_ cracking on me."

She flinched, as if he had struck her physically. Lear saw her hand fist out of the corner of his eye. "You _think _I won't be able to stand it. I'm made of stronger stuff than you think, Lear."

"However strong the stuff you're made of, this is _not_ your problem, Anarei."

This time, she snapped. "And it's _yours_?"

"No, but if I _don't_ deal with it, I'll have an even _bigger_ problem."

"Like _what_?" She blocked his path. Now that he faced her properly, he saw the glower on her face as she hissed. "Oh, right - you won't tell me, anyway, right?"

Lear raised his voice - he couldn't help it, couldn't hold back the frustration, the confusion, the exasperation and despair. "_Why_ do you want to help me, Anarei?"

The words sounded familiar to his ears, felt familiar upon his tongue. Had he asked that before?

She looked surprised at first. The faint smile that graced her lips immediately afterwards was wry, a little sad - it was familiar, too. "Because you look in need of a little kindness."

_Oh, come _on_!_

"Look." Anarei had barely breathed out the word, before ceasing to speak, likely mincing her words inwardly. "Like it or not, we're stuck here together for the time being. We're just strangers, but still, we've helped each other out so far. Let me help you now."

He remembered the gods-awful crying, and resisted the urge to sigh. "Help me get better, then." He gave in and sighed anyway. "Help me so I can fight harder and longer again, because I do _not_ want to see that face on you, alright?" He snarled as he realised how sentimental that sounded, and amended, "It's bloody irritating."

She looked both embarrassed and amused, her smile deepening just a touch. Evidently pleased with the offer, her voice softened almost instantly. "I'll try my best."

* * *

"Alright, let's see. Four levels beneath this one before we get to the royal crypts, and then some more digging around before we find Leoric's tomb. Was that what your friend said?"

He let out a soft growl - she was starting to get used to the particular sound he made every time he was frustrated or annoyed, but couldn't do anything about it. "That manipulative little witch of an archivist is _not_ my friend."

She couldn't help but to chuckle as she glanced aside toward her companion - Lear was by far a better sight than the littered corpses and severed body parts lining their path. In their fear of the unknown, the people of Tristram had neglected to clear the cathedral of corpses - not even the parts that were safe from the undead. As a result, the corpses lay piled in corners, entombed within the darkness amongst festering flies. These, they avoided as they poked about, seeking what information they could in the meantime.

In the days following their mutual agreement to help and to accept help, Anarei had learnt to look away from the empty, vacant faces of the dead. It ached, still, to think about them - but that, at least, she could deal with in the privacy of her own room.

And so she watched Lear instead, wondered what he thought, considered the implications of Leah's hold over him.

She'd come up with absolutely nothing.

"Was that what the little bitch had said, then?"

"Language, Anarei. That was hardly befitting of a lady of your age and upbringing."

_Mam would not approve, neither. _

Still, she didn't quite feel as repentant as she ought, and, instead, chuckled again. "You've never been surrounded by rowdy northerners, then. Besides, I've been calling her that in my head all this time."

"I _have_ been surrounded by crudely-spoken folk, thank you. I just don't think it's... _necessary_ to be crude." He kicked at a piece of rubble, watch as it bounced down the walkway until it was stopped by a pile of bones. "Thinking something and saying something are entirely different matters, after all."

The idea amused her, somehow - that Lear was more inclined to be polite in speech in comparison to Taranis. _He _had never given her reason to be unhappy.

_Dear old Taranis. I wonder how he's doing back home. Chasing skirts, probably, if uncle hasn't gotten him into the officer ranks already._

The thought of her friend made her a touch homesick. She swallowed, shook her head quickly, then turned to her current companion, pointedly refusing to look at the pile of bones. "Was that what _Miss Leah_ had said, _then?_"

_Please don't make me repeat the question a fourth time._

"The crypts are four floors down, and then a few more until we reach the tomb we're ultimately after, yes." He responded quickly and instantly, and she got the feeling that he had been readying his answer all along, and only wanted to take his time to make her life difficult.

She narrowed her eyes a little, biting on the sides of her lip as she peered at him. "And then we'll need to find Leoric's bones afterwards. Does Cain know what we'll be facing down there besides that? He was vague about the fallen star - for all we know, it could be a giant potato."

_A giant potato that raises the dead. Gods, Rei - the things your mind comes up with._ She hoped he'd understood the sarcasm.

He merely crooked an eyebrow at her, looking genuinely puzzled. "It doesn't _smell _like potato... usually when stars fall from the sky - comets and the like, they're heavy rocks, rich in rare metals. Perhaps it reacted oddly with the air, or the soil, or the dead bodies in the ground..." He trailed off, looking to be in deep thought.

_So serious. He's actually considering it._

Anarei bit her lip, then let out a sigh. "Lear, I'll eat my shoe if the fallen star's a potato. I was just kidding - you know, making a point? That it could be just about anything in there?"

Lear blinked at her, before realisation dawned in his eyes. He grunted and turned away. "One thing at a time, Anarei. I just hope the 'crown' we need to find actually _looks_ like a crown. What if it's... a wreath? A headpiece? Or even just a funny hat?" He snorted roughly, though he seemed more than a little amused, himself. "Can you believe it, though... a demon that refuses to awaken unless it's crowned? What is he, a petulant child doing role-playing?"

"Apparently there's some kind of magic imbued in that crown." Now _she _turned serious. She wrinkled her nose, her eyes crinkling with the movement - it obscured her vision, but only briefly, and then the corpses were visible again. "I'm not too sure what that's all about, but it was done so Leoric's skeleton couldn't be stolen away for whatever purpose."

Lear sounded disgusted by the notion. "Who'd want to steal a _skeleton_, of all things? Then again -"

He paused as a low groan came from ahead. For a second or two he tapped his foot on the ground, as though deliberating, before suddenly shooting forward to swing the heel of that foot directly into an undead, kicking it into another animated corpse and causing them both to be thrown into the wall. They splattered against it, trailing brownish-red blood and greyish-pink tissue as they slid to the floor.

" - some people have weird fetishes." He finished as he turned to continue on his way.

Anarei forced herself to look away, but was not spared the thick, squelching sound. It did not go unnoticed that Lear had disposed of them without so much as batting an eyelash. _Don't think about it. Don't even consider what they were - what they are now, is dead. Dead and at peace, for real._

She hoped Lear wasn't watching too closely. After all, she'd promised to be strong. "Leoric's soul was tainted, after all. He was consumed by Diablo's evil. It's not unnatural to consider that those who serve a darker power might attempt to poke about, see if there's magic left in those old bones."

"Well, he's just another one we have to put to rest, then." He started to descend the stairs, beyond which low keening and moaning could be heard. "Ready your swords, Anarei, and remember - we're doing them a favour."

She followed him, drawing her swords, gripping them tightly. Then she prayed, prayed with all her heart and soul to the gods, that he was right.

Prayed that it would, in time, become easier to believe that she was, really and truly, doing the dead a favour.

* * *

**Authors' Notes:**

**Em: **Well, what do you know? Here's another chapter! We hope you've enjoyed the ride so far. Here's us getting the important things out of the way: We do not own any part of the Diablo franchise. Or Leah. Or Cain. (But we _do_ own his insanity.)

**Oph: **We also own Leah's manipulative bitchiness, and very much prefer it to her wide-eyed innocent-fragile-flower character in-game. Glad you like that, too, **Patches**! And thanks also to **Tarnished Libris **for the reviews!

**Em: **Oh, yes. The reviews - the reviews that gave the both of us multitudes of giggles and lots of brain-juice (no zombie pun intended)! But we do love the reviews, though, so keep them coming, please? Pretty please?

**Oph: **It keeps us churning out quality chapters with gusto! Also, this chapter's really very quick... not sure how good we're gonna be with the next one, but we hope to get it out soon. It'll be another action-packed one!

**Em: **With lots of battle scenes, ethical discomforts for healers, and... gore. If Oph has her way, there will be gore. Anyhow, thanks for your support, and go right ahead and hit on that review button - it's feeling a bit lonely. Cheers!


	10. Chapter 9: Beneath the Surface

**Chapter 9**

**Beneath the Surface**

* * *

_This is ridiculous. _

He turned the words over in his mind, deliberating whether such response adequately expressed his outrage, decided that they weren't, but they would have to do for now.

"This is ridiculous," said Lear, and mentally kicked himself for sounding nowhere _near_ as outraged as he felt. "Did it simply not _occur _to you to tell us that we have to go somewhere _else_ to find the crown, or do you just lack the _decency_ to do it?"

"You ran off so quickly; I didn't really expect you to actually get right into it." Leah shrugged nonchalantly, and took another sip of her drink. The sound of her slurping grated on his eardrums, and he gritted his teeth to bite back a growl.

"You took us to the _Cathedral_."

"I thought you were just scouting it out; clearing the way for later."

"Do you _really_ think I'm that patient? With you, and with all of these stupid errands you send me on?"

"No, but I know _your kind_ is careful, and if you wanted to go... investigate, who was I to stop you?"

"Okay, let's all take a step back." Anarei's voice was wearied, even soft. She had been equally agitated before; but now, she just sounded drained. "Where is the crown?"

Leah shrugged a shoulder. Her apparent nonchalance served only to irritate him further. "I'm not too sure about that, but the blacksmith might know. His grandfather was Leoric's chancellor, so if there's any hope at all of finding that trinket, he's our best bet."

Anarei frowned, and a muscle twitched in her cheek. Exhausted or no, he knew she was likely still annoyed to a certain extent. "And where might we find the blacksmith?"

"Haedrig's usually at his forge, and if he isn't, he's probably sitting by his wife's bedside." Leah's tone had taken on an airy sort of quality, though she had enough sense to wear a solemn expression upon her face. Not that he cared if it was genuine or otherwise. "She hasn't been feeling too well lately."

"Not everyone's feeling up to enjoying tea-biscuits, Miss Leah. We'll be on our way now." Anarei's expression was severe, her voice clipped as she reached to grasp his upper arm. She addressed him now. "Come."

He didn't like being told what to do, much less _obeying _her, but he was feeling a growing compulsion to flip the table over.

"Don't expect me to put up with this for much longer, Lady Leah." He tossed Leah a dirty glance over his shoulder even as Anarei dragged him out. _That little witch. That insufferable woman. _

But Anarei was even more insistent upon leaving than he was upon doing horrible things to Leah. Lear sighed, heard the way it came out rattling like a harsh grunt, and followed.

* * *

"That has _got_ to be one of the most ridiculous things I've heard in the last twenty years." Lear's cheeks were puffed up a little; he was clearly still fuming.

She bit back a smile, but found her lips curling anyway as she wrapped her arms about her abdomen, clutching her waist with a low, tired sigh. "You say that like you're an old man complaining about rising prices and the lack of respect in today's generation."

"No," he responded quickly, adamantly. "I say that meaning I've _never _heard of such a stupid thing before."

"Hm?" She glanced aside towards him, took in his expression and noted that he was dead serious. "Oh. Right."

Startling as the realisation was, Anarei found she lacked any real strength to care at present. Instead, she managed a wry smile, then shrugged a shoulder, wincing as the bone clicked into place. It had been sore ever since they'd escaped the inner sanctums of the cathedral.

_One too many demon-packs and risen dead. But I'd take the demons over the undead any day - at least those weren't once human._

"You're older than Strahan." She murmured - it would not do to think on such things right now, when he could see the strain upon her face so clearly. One could _always _be sure that Lear would notice such things, after all. "But there's nothing for it now, is there? At least we know what we'll be facing - or won't be facing, when we head down there again."

He scoffed, but offered no other comment as he made a beeline for the smithy. It had been a long day and she was sure he was just as tired as she was - from the day, from the people, from everything.

She wondered for a moment if he felt the same amount of exhaustion on an emotional level. It had crossed her mind that he was just good at tuning things out, but then she'd watched as he'd taken down undead after risen undead without so much as flinching.

_They're dead. Dead and gone, so don't think about them right now._

The twinge of guilt that had been threatening to overwhelm her all day resurfaced yet again. She swallowed, hard, then shook her head clear as she followed after him. _Not now._

The smith was hammering away at his forge, likely reforging some old blade by the look of the brightly-glowing strip of metal upon his anvil. Beads of his sweat fell to the hot steel, sizzling away.

He did not look up as they approached, and started when she called his name. Startled, he'd finally raised his head, eyes wide as if having only just awakened from some nightmare, then panted aloud, "What?"

Anarei cleared her throat. "I said, good evening, sir."

The blacksmith grunted in response, running one large, heavy arm across his forehead, over the sheen of sweat. "What can I do for ye, wee miss?"

_Either he's just been through hell and back, or his wife's in more trouble than we'd thought._

She hoped it was the former.

"We need to find Leoric's crown." Anarei unfolded her hands as she took a step closer. For some reason, she couldn't quite shake the feeling that the blacksmith was feeling more than was healthy for a man, at present. It made her all the more anxious - but his troubles would have to wait for now. "We were told you'd know where it is."

"Och." The blacksmith clenched his jaw, setting his hammer down with a heavy, metallic clang. "Yer after the black king, are ye?"

"Not exactly, sir; we just need to get past him." Lear was rubbing his eyes, his fatigue more apparently now that his agitation had subsided. "Lady Leah's sent us on this errand; it's been a bit of a pain in the neck, so we'd really appreciate it if you can... I don't know, give us a hand? Throw us a bone?"

The blacksmith let out a tired sigh, running his dirtied, oil-stained hands over his face. It smeared messily, but he didn't seem to care. "The crown's in the old cemetery by the hollow. It was buried with m'grandfather, s'far as I know." His eyes were dull as he looked between the both of them. Anarei got the distinct impression he was sizing them up. "S'no good, going into a cemetery now. Lots o' risin' dead."

Anarei bit her lip. "We know, sir."

"We're not heading out _now_, sir." Lear's tone had regained that irritated, impatient edge. "Not that it'd be any more or less dangerous to go there during daytime, but we've had a long day." His voice softened just a touch as he lowered his eyes to the wearied blacksmith. "We _all_ have, haven't we, sir?"

_Is that actual sympathy?_

The blacksmith shook his head, the soft cracks of his joints loud in the silent night. "Times o' war, young sir. We all do what we can."

There was a heavy lump in her throat that blocked the breaths of cold air, kept them from filling her lungs. Anarei swallowed - she knew she was grimacing, even as she fought to keep her voice steady. "I'm sorry, sir. It's your wife, isn't it?"

"S'everybody's wife, miss. Everybody's husband - someone's entire life, dyin' in tha' cellar down there." The blacksmith's voice had taken on a somewhat bitter cast, though Anarei thought she heard traces of panicked anxiety in his tone.

_Panic, guilt. It's all very familiar, isn't it? This is the face of the healer who has to let his patient die. This is the voice of the healer who coaxes his patient in the final moments - tells them that everything will be alright, and that the world will be good again when they wake up._

She opened her mouth to speak, found herself speechless. The blacksmith merely shrugged, looking equally helpless.

"They're done dying, though... well, most of them are." Where she had trouble finding her voice, Lear's came out rather too easily, and his tone was much too matter-of-fact. "Most of them are in the stage of _turning_, now, aren't they?"

She heard the gasp before she could stop herself from crying out. _Tactless! So very tactless,_ her mind screamed.

The blacksmith gnashed his stained teeth together, his voice rising. "And what? Am I t'end 'em just as easily as if they were hellspawn? Those are my friends, my _wife _- the woman I am meant t'protect, and honour, and love. Ye don't end a marriage like this."

_His wife. I've seen her. _Somewhere in the depths of her mind, Anarei thought she recalled the image of a thin, blonde woman who'd often come to sit by the bedsides of the injured. She'd eased the passing of many.

_And now someone has to ease her passing in return. Gods, I hadn't even known she'd been hurt._

"I'm sorry." She hoped her voice would not waver - but it did, however slightly. Loathe as she was to admit it, Lear was right. But she doubted the blacksmith needed to hear all of that - surely he'd know how troublesome it would be if his friends had turned and broken loose of the cellar.

_He knows what needs to be done. The trouble is the deed itself, isn't it?_ In that moment, she wasn't sure she could afford the same logic, were she in the blacksmith's position. _Oh, blacksmith - I'm so sorry._

Fortunately, Lear seemed to have found his discretion and clamped up, only crossing his arms to show his discontent of the circumstances.

After a moment, he inhaled deeply, and released it in the form of a loud sigh. "What _are_ you going to do about it, then, sir?"

_Discretion, my foot._

The blacksmith shrugged a shoulder helplessly. It seemed his anger had been fleeting - another sign that he knew just as well as they did what he had to do. "I canna do it alone."

She wished she could say something to help, anything at all that would serve to make this poor soul feel better. The only words that escaped her lips were unsatisfactory - a death sentence for the doomed. "I'll help you if you need, sir."

_While I'm crying myself to sleep at the thought of having to kill what once were men and women, this man here is going to live out the remainder of his life with the knowledge that he's had to end his own wife's life. That's on his hands._

Somehow, Anarei found the thought made her sick.

The blacksmith raised his head, the anguish in his face clear. She looked at him, saw the way his eyes were deep and dark with weariness, the way he could hardly breathe, the strength with which he reached to grip the edge of his anvil, turning his knuckles pale..

"Take all the time you need, blacksmith. I'll wait with you until you're ready."

Lear leaned in close to her, then, close enough to whisper into her ear. "You know, we _could_ just take care of his problems for him. A group of restrained undeads - it wouldn't be hard."

_It wouldn't be hard. Is he even hearing himself?_

She bowed her head, biting her lip and hoping the hair falling into her face was sufficient to hide her expression from him. One hand snaked to his arm once more, and she tugged him aside, out of earshot of the blacksmith, who now had his face in his hands.

"That's his _wife_, Lear."

"That _was_ his wife. We've battled enough undeads by now, Anarei; _all_ of them _used_ to be someone's loved one - family or friend. Why should _this_ be any different?" He threw a quick glance back at the blacksmith, and swallowed audibly before turning back to her, pressing his voice even lower. "Look, if it's bothering you, he doesn't even need to find out. _You _don't have to do it. They're restrained - I could be in and out of there in a quarter of an hour."

Anarei swallowed, blinking hard, then lifted her head to meet his eyes. She hoped her expression was severe enough that he might fail to see just how much she wanted to take him up on that offer.

_Because that's what you want to do, isn't it? Run - run and let him handle the dirty work. But these are the soldiers who'd fought hard to keep their loved ones safe. And I could've been Mira, could've gotten injured trying to help these people._

"It's his wife." She repeated. "I don't know about you, Lear, but if I were in his shoes, I'd want to do it myself. It's not about him anymore, is it? It's about giving her, and the rest of them in there, the right to at least die with a shred of dignity. I don't think he'd trust anyone else to do it. I wouldn't."

Lear stared at her with that look of incredulity - the look of his thinking she was stupid. "They're _already_ dead, Anarei. As for his wife, wouldn't it be more dignifying for her husband _not_ to see her in such a state?"

_You won't ever understand this, I think. We won't see eye to eye. So why bother?_

She held his gaze, suddenly aware that her eyes were damp despite her best efforts. Somehow, it didn't matter as much anymore. _Let him see. Let him see what I think about this, as a healer, as a woman._

"Maybe. But neither you, nor I are married, and therefore cannot possibly hope to comprehend the kind of pain he's going through right now. If I were in his shoes, though, I'd want to be there - and the same applies if I were in hers. I'd want him there." Anarei flexed her fingers, taking a deep breath. "I pray you'll never find yourself in his shoes, Lear. If you do, I hope it comes as easily to you then, as it does now."

He looked unimpressed and disgruntled, but seemed to relent, at least for now. "Well, just standing around feeling bad isn't going to help anyone." Turning his eyes upwards, he paused for a moment of deliberation. "How about we clean out the cellar, and bring his wife's reanimated corpse to him, then? So he can... see her off for her final journey, so to speak?"

She considered shoving him into the fire for his crass words, but decided against it. He _had _sounded as if he'd put some effort into his speech - even if it had fallen short of actual tactfulness.

_So much for teaching _me _about manners._

Suddenly impatient, she took a step back. "_You_ don't have to be there, Lear. You can go back and rest if you want - I only told him _I_ would help." Her voice quietened - she let out a somewhat involuntary sniffle and immediately hated herself for it. "I just don't think he should be alone when he does it, is all."

"_I _don't think _you_ should be alone _if_ you do it, neither." He frowned, his tone darkening. "I've told you, haven't I? I don't want you to break on me. And from what I can see, you _can't _do it." He sneered angrily, and turned away. "The last thing I want is to have you cry through the night again."

_Ouch_.

She flinched, grateful that he was turned away and so could not see her. _Talk about striking where it hurts._

For a moment or two, she wondered what had hurt more - that he thought so lowly of her, or that he was right. She gritted her teeth, felt her cheeks burn as she took a quelling breath. It took all her strength to mutter, afterwards, "Don't worry. If I'm feeling the urge to cry, I'll be sure to find a hole where you can't hear it."

Lear sighed again at that - notably more softly, as if it contained by a hint of regret or guilt. "Regardless, a girl like you shouldn't be doing these things, and most certainly not on your own." He reached up with his hand, brushed his fingers through his mess of hair. "So what's your plan, Anarei?"

"Wait. Wait and see if he'll feel ready for it." She turned away then, leaning back against the wall of the smithy. While they'd argued and conversed, night had fallen, and the cloak of darkness enshrouded the town. Suddenly, she felt cold. "He'll come around. He _has _to. We can look for that crown tomorrow, and you can go to bed if you want. I know you're tired."

_One last chance for you to back out. I'm sorry, but I'm not going to be good company, and you can't berate me for it if I've given you fair warning._

He rolled his shoulders back and turned on his heels - but rather than going back the way they came, he made towards a pile of empty crates in the corner of the smithy. "I'll go over there to clean my weapons. Let me know when you've sorted out all the talking and are ready to go clear out the cellar."

She watched as he left. In that moment, she wondered if she was really, truly as alone as she thought - but then he took his knives out, and she was reminded once again that she knew almost nothing about him.

Letting out a sigh, she turned away. At that moment, she had better and more pressing things to think about.

* * *

It was early in the morning, barely light out, yet New Tristram had awoken - perhaps it had not slept at all. From where she sat nestled into the hard wooden window seat of the unlit living hall, Anarei watched the day begin.

She started as the sound of footsteps reached her ears, but it was just a maid. Their eyes met briefly - then the plump, young girl - likely no more than thirteen - smiled, a sad wry thing, before resuming her business of building a fire. Anarei found herself grateful for the silence. At present, conversation was far from her mind.

They'd put so many to rest that night. Soldiers, fathers, unlucky mothers, children and even an old, loyal dog that had sat by the bed of her slowly-decaying young master. Then there had been the blacksmith's wife - Mira, once beautiful and gentle.

Now a pile of ash in a ruddy urn.

That had been days ago, but still the silence of grief hung heavy in the air.

Anarei shifted, leaning back, felt the chill of the glass as she pressed her cheek against the misted window. Where she sat, she could see the blacksmith's forge, dimly lit by the light of a lone candle. Haedrig stood at his anvil - he'd been pounding on it all night, the clattering echoing heavily in his otherwise still surroundings. Perhaps he was thinking about his wife, or his grandfather, the Black King's chancellor.

They'd found the crown set carelessly atop a stone-carved bust of his grandfather. Once a trusted advisor of the Black King himself, Chancellor Eamon's tomb now stood defiled within its crypt in the cemetery.

The dead had died again. She suspected the blacksmith had no use for such knowledge, and they'd neglected to repeat their encounters in the cemetery's depths. Privately, she thought he was grateful they'd said nothing when they'd handed him the crown, a tarnished old thing.

"Needs repair." He'd grunted, before retreating into his home.

Whatever it was he'd been hammering the entire time since, she had a slight suspicion it wasn't the crown.

"D'you think the crown's ready yet?" Lear's voice, still a little thick with sleepiness, resounded behind her - much too close to her, only a few paces away. She hadn't heard his approach. "He's been working on it since yesterday evening, hasn't he?"

She winced, inhaling sharply. In her shock, she'd bitten her tongue. Still, she forced herself to calm, and turned to gaze at her companion. As always, she studied his face, took a moment to ponder him, his past and his intent - as always, she came up with nothing. "He's not working the crown _right now_. May have, at some point in the night, but that looks more like a blade."

He ran his fingers through his hair in place of combing it, letting the strands fall over his scalp as they pleased. His face was set in something like... anxiety? "Well, if it's ready, I'd rather just get on with it - the skeletons and the rock in the Cathedral."

"If he's done repairing it." She responded tiredly. The frayed edges of her woollen shroud brushed her cheek as she tugged it closer, folding her arms afterwards. "And then we can get this over and done with. Just like you want, yes?"

_Because we all know you don't want to be here any longer than you have to be._

"_You_ want that, too, don't you?" He walked closer, dragged over a chair to seat himself down beside her - closer, but not too close. "It's not as if you can fight these corpses for much longer, huh?"

She met his eyes, feeling the roughened edges of the windowsill as she leaned into its side. He was so very difficult to understand, so closed off - like a tightly-lidded clam intent upon hiding its pearl from would-be disturbers. At times he was cordial, and she fancied she saw a shred of decency, even warmth, in him - and then at other times, he was just cold and distant. It confused her to no end - not that she cared, or thought she should at all.

Still, she wondered.

_What pearl are you hiding, Lear?_

"I'm not certain we have a choice at this point."

"You don't have to come, if you're... tired." He leaned back in his chair, linked his fingers upon his lap, looking entirely too casual, considering their current topic. "You didn't have to go into the cellar, or the cemetery, or even the crypt. You don't need to come to the Cathedral with me again, neither. All that remains is the Skeleton King, and he's just one enemy."

She managed a bare sort of smile. "And yet I went, anyway." The wooden boards creaked quietly as she shifted, wincing at the dull ache of having sat too long in the same posture. "We're all tired, Lear. Maybe that's why we, and everyone else, should stick together - or try for unity at least."

_Not like the rest of the town hasn't taken Leah's lead in abandoning this task to him - but there's only so much a broken human spirit can take on._

Still, she wondered if the people of New Tristram weren't just a touch more cowardly than they liked to believe, themselves.

"That's not quite what I meant." He regarded her then, seemed to take in her appearance as he paused in thought - she noted that his eyes lingered over her ringlets. "You're not... _used _to this. Nor should you _be_ used to it. You're a healer, Anarei - a young one, at that. These are not things you should see, acts in which you should involve yourself."

She turned a little so that she might face him better. "Perhaps not. But I did say, didn't I? I don't think we'll have much of a choice in this - now, or in the coming future. The darkness is stirring, and not just in this part of the Sanctuary. It's everywhere, and it's going to cost more lives. You know as well as I do, young or no, that when the time comes, I'll _have _to jump into the fray." Her lips felt dry as she ran her tongue quickly through them, feeling the rough scabs. "Better to learn now than later, right?"

"Pretty tough on you, though, to be learning on what used to be _people_, isn't it?" Lear's grin was small, and Anarei couldn't tell if he was trying for sly or wry with the expression. "Cultists, undeads, skeletons. Fighting them isn't quite the same as fighting any other demon or beast, I can assure you."

_If I didn't already know that, I wouldn't be upset at all, now would I?_

Anarei let out a quiet sigh, shutting her eyes to him. Somewhere within the depths of her mind, she sought the memory of younger and fairer days, of all the time she had spent in the infirmary with her father, with her grandfather's wife, with Strahan. She swallowed.

"I was born in the north, after all." Lear was still looking at her when she opened her eyes. "We're stronger than we look - like you said, heavier, too. I'm not a stranger to working with people, Lear, even _dead _ones."

There were all those men in Virkove, after all - the men and women who'd fallen in battle, whose funeral rights had demanded they at least be made whole once more. Stitch after stitch, week after week.

_Practice makes perfect._

Lear just shrugged and turned his eyes towards the lightening scenery outside the window. "Just... _don't _crack on me." He snorted quietly and sardonically. "More importantly, don't die and reanimate on me."

_We know you wouldn't have a problem ending me if that happened._

She lifted a hand to her head, fingers digging deep into her temple. The thought was ludicrous - but somehow, the threat was very real, and very close. It stung somewhat. Still, she knew he'd be stupid to keep her alive if the unthinkable _had _occurred, just as it was stupid for her to expect anything like that from him. "Burn my body if I die. It's as easy as that."

His smile grew wider, but somehow also colder. "Noted. I'll have to trouble you to do the same for me, when I die."

_When you die, Lear? _

His choice of words did not please her.

"If it's all the same to you," Anarei lifted her head. "I'd rather not have to witness you die."

A touch of warmth crept into his smile as he got to his feet. "Neither would I. Feel free to turn away at any time, then." He grunted as he stretched, and began to walk off. "I'm paying the blacksmith a visit. Have some breakfast in the meantime; if the crown's ready, I'll come back, meet up with you, and we'll leave for the Cathedral."

She watched from the window as he made his way to the smithy. The glint of steel caught her eye as the blacksmith handed something over - the crown. Her heart sank a little at the dread that bound her in that moment, but she comforted herself with the knowledge that it was the beginning of the end.

* * *

_Finally. _Lear mused as he stood before the skeleton, each bone still somehow held in place - in his mind, he could see the tendrils of off-green magic weaving between each individual piece, twisting and winding into the form of tendons and ligaments, nerves and vessels, even taking the forms of organs and muscles. _This is a truly intriguing sight. _

"You're smiling."

Anarei stood poised by his side, her hands wrapped firmly about the hilts of her swords. Like him, she watched display of bone seemingly untouched by time, her lips curled in a wry sort of smile. Unlike him, she did not seem as fascinated - if anything, her smile was likely a result of his own amusement. "And stop spinning that crown around. If it flies off and breaks, we'll have to get it fixed again, and I am not climbing all the way up there a second time."

An idea occurred to him as he was compelled to spin the crown about his hand even faster. Watching Anarei out of the corner of his eye, he let the crown spiral out of his grasp, only to catch it again as it fell. The young healer's panicked yelp coaxed a bark of laughter from him.

She pursed her lips together and wrinkled her nose as she reached out to smack his upper arm, playfully chiding. Her smile had deepened as he'd laughed, causing her eyes to brighten in spite of their current circumstances. "If you accidentally crown the wrong head -"

"Maybe he'd still wake up, enraged, and proceed to kill all his royal assistants for betraying him." His own words turned sour in his mouth, and he turned aside, occupying himself with looking at the other skeletons, which were not quite as composed as the large one on the throne. "We can try it, you know; Lady Leah's not here to shout orders at us."

"No!" Anarei grabbed his sleeve, as if to keep him close. The smile had failed to die away. She shook her head nonetheless, a stray curl brushing her cheek as she wrinkled her nose, then jerked her head quickly towards Leoric's skeleton. "I don't think Lady Leah's quite a lady at all - she definitely wouldn't be one if she bellowed orders. But let's not go finding more trouble than we need."

"As soon as this is over, I'm out of here and _never_ running errands for her again." Holding the crown with both hands, Lear took a last thorough inspection of it - the gold was now clear of tarnish, though he considered that for it to tarnish in the first place, the gold had to be impure. Perhaps the king _did_ have a legitimate reason to be angry at his assistants, after all. "Isn't the crowning of a king meant to be... grand and solemn, and ceremonial? How shall we do this?"

Anarei bit her lip. He realised she was trying to hide a chuckle. "I crown thee King Leoric? Elder Cain said nothing about an incantation, and I'm inclined to think there isn't one."

His heart sank a little as the light-hearted humour ran out. "Well, I'm not about to just _stride_ up to him and put the crown on his head. That'd be leaving myself wide open. I don't want him to gut me." He own words felt distasteful again. He sucked hard on the insides of his cheeks.

That served to wipe the last remnants of amusement clean out of Anarei's face. She winced, releasing her vice-like grip of his arm. "D'you want me to do it?"

She certainly didn't sound like she wanted to. "I don't want him to gut _you_, neither." It'd be a sight he didn't need to see. Ever. Never again. "Look," he sighed. "Ready your weapons. I'll approach from the side, put the crown on his head and retreat as fast as I can. Let's hope that he doesn't wake up too quickly."

"Be careful." The words were softly spoken, and barely loud enough to be perceptible.

Unsheathing one of his knives with his free hand, Lear clambered up onto the arm of the throne, carefully avoiding the arm bones resting there. He suspended the crown over the bare skull, drew in a breath, held it.

And after making sure his hand was steady, he lowered the crown onto the skeleton's head.

The response was instantaneous. Before he could jump back, a sharp force had swatted him clean off. He barely had enough time to get his bearings and right himself in the air, and landed on his knees.

Somewhere near him, Anarei cried out. He heard the sounds - creaking bones, a great roar accompanied by crumbling pebbles and the hiss of hastily-drawn swords. And he could _see _it - the power of their foe, his anger and aggression.

Drawing his second blade, Lear hopped to his feet. He ignored the stinging in his knees, and instead, focused on the warmth flowing from the core of his being to fill the muscles of his legs.

He kicked off; in an instant, he was in front of the stout skeleton, the former-king holding himself proudly even in death. His eyes swept over the heavy armour, but was only spared a second or two before he had to duck, avoiding the large, heavy mace that was being swung about, felt the wind as it glanced over his head.

"Watch out, Anarei," he called out to his companion, hoping that she was keeping calm - calm enough, at any rate. "Neck or waist - pick one and attack. We haven't much chance with anywhere else."

She nodded tersely. Both swords were held firm within her hands, one with its tip just brushing the floor, the other blade resting over her shoulder. "Waist."

_Excellent choice_, he wanted to say, but the words failed to realise themselves, as the piles of bone scattered upon the floor began to shift. Mere twitches at first that escalated slowly to swift, aggressive movements.

He kicked at a shifting hip bone, but it merely glided past his leg. With clicks and snaps, the bones came together, forming the figures of warriors long deceased.

He felt the nudge of Anarei's shoulder against his side as she backed into him. Her voice was a low hiss. "Now?"

"There's no timing in this one, Anarei!" Sensing the approach of two skeletal warriors, he spun on his heel, lifting his other leg to plant a kick into the ribcage of the nearer foe, causing bones to shatter explosively upon impact.

_If only something more _fleshy_ was nearby; that was some pretty impressive shrapnel. _"Focus on the king; cut down the rest if they get in the way." He parried the blow of a broadsword by another warrior with his knife, swiftly and precisely so as to not damage his slender, delicate weapons, and followed the movement with his other knife, beheading the warrior as his lightning-imbued blade slid between the bones of the skeleton's neck.

Anarei's footsteps were loud. In contrast, she was unbothered with delicacy - she simply broke through the warriors, bringing her heavy swords down upon skulls, shattering bones and joints. Leoric's skeleton roared as she darted before it, lifting the weapon over its head with its pale fingers.

The large mace fell against Anarei's crossed swords; she let out a grunt as the force pushed her down, but held her ground. _Huh. This is useful._

"Hate to be asking this of a lady, Anarei, but keep doing that." Having cleared his way of the awakened skeleton warriors, Lear bridged the gap between himself and the king with a few wide strides, and, seeing that his foe was still preoccupied with his companion, aimed a charged kick into the gap between its heavy pauldron and plated bracers, and directly into the skeleton's left elbow.

Leoric's bones let out a furious bellow, and swung the mace towards him. Lear's retreat was slower than he had wanted, and he felt the sting as the spiked blades mounted on the mace sliced through the light leather armour beneath his overshirt. The metal glided past the skin of his abdomen, over the sensitive scar tissues near his navel.

_Go, Anarei. Attack while he's distracted. _

She did not disappoint. The flash of silver had barely caught his eye before her sword connected with Leoric's ankle. A loud clang arose - the bone was stronger than it looked. Still, the black king swayed, but managed to stay upright.

Anarei swore under her breath, then drove the tip of her sword through the black king's arm and pulled. That caught its attention.

Lear leapt to his feet and kicked off the ground. Felt the sharp, searing burn in his abdomen, as he wound up his body for a kick.

_A moonlit room; blood looking almost black upon the shadowed walls. _

The mace had cut him, after all. _No. Not this. Not now._

Lear tried to refocus, but was snapped back to reality anyway by a sudden off-green glow that filled his vision.

He kicked out before the skeleton swung its weapon. His steel-plated boot made contact with the handle of the mace, just above the where it was grasped by the bony hand, causing a resounding _clang. _The impact sent tremours up his leg, and he crumpled to the floor, smacking the stone hard. The mace fell out of the king's hand to land beside him.

Anarei was attacking again, the sound of her boots upon the floor ringing harshly even amidst her short, breathless pants. He watched as she swam in and out of focus, but could just make out the glint of her swords as she once again thrust their tips into Leoric's arms, twisting both skeletal limbs back.

Enraged, the skeleton roared. Anarei had ground her feet into the stones, holding doggedly onto her swords with gritted teeth - but only for a moment. The full might of Leoric's wrath was too strong; the skeleton reared, arched its back and bucked like an unbroken horse. The healer gasped as the swords were wrenched up, the movement stretching her arms up.

And then she was thrown backwards, and with a faint scream, hit the wall close behind them. She fell to the ground as her swords clattered.

_Wide open._

He stood once more, forced himself to concentrate on the scene before him, rather than the one in his mind. Forced himself to concentrate on Anarei's predicament, rather than the renewed pain in his abdominal wound.

He let out a shout. Stamped his left foot into the ground, hopped off it and kicked out with his right. _An eye for an eye. _He kicked directly at the black king's hollowed abdomen, felt the thick magic wrap around his shin, and the resistance of the spine, deep within the cavity.

Then a skeletal hand fastened itself around his ankle with crushing force.

Lear bit back a curse, willed himself not to panic, and tried to draw from deeper within - the warmth within the core of his body, the pulsating source he knew he had inherited.

Blue-grey sparks of lightning burst forth from his trapped limb, crackling their way over the skeleton's hand, streaking up his spine. The skeleton shrieked as smoke seeped from between its ribs, its empty eye sockets, its gaping jaw, the cracks between its armour.

King Leoric's final scream diminished into a faint sigh before dying away. His bones crumbled into a heap on the floor, then into a mound of fine dust. The crown fell, shattered into tiny specks of gold, and mixed into the bone dust.

Lear landed beside the dust-pile a moment later. What remained of the Skeleton King wafted into off the floor, drifted in the musty air for a moment, and faded out.

Yet Lear saw none of it; amidst the echoing screams within and without, his mind brought him back - to the room, illuminated by the silver moonlight. The entrails no longer glistened as the blood that coated them dried in the dank air. He smelled the stale foulness of slaughter, tasted the bile at the back of his throat, felt the cold piece of metal in his gut.

And he wondered if he would die.

* * *

**Authors' Notes: **

**Oph: **Diablo belongs to Blizzard, massive amount of liberty taken by us. I finally played some of the game. I'm also flying off on Wednesday and won't be home until mid-late October. Thank you alerters, favouriters and reviewers. There, all the important stuff addressed.

**Em: **We may or may not be able to get another chapter out before Oph leaves - goodness knows we've done it before. Y'all know what helps us along, though? Reviews! Lots and lots of reviews to tell us what you love and what you don't love! We need that juice, folks!

**Oph: **Especially since we gave you delicious action this chapter, didn't we? I hope so, anyway. And by action I do mean battle-action. Not... some other kinds of actions that Em thought of when I last mentioned action. Ahem.

**Em: **There's so many kinds of action! There's action-action, there's fight-action, there's lip action, there's bedtime acti - I'm going to stop myself right here before I palpitate my heart into a frenzy. But we're serious about that juice. We hope you've enjoyed this chapter, too!

**Oph: **We really hope you've liked all the different things we're doing here that diverges from canon, and oh is it only going to get better. So yeah, watch for an update in the coming few days, otherwise we'll see you in October! Cheers!


	11. Chapter 10: Flight

**Chapter 10**

**Flight**

* * *

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The dripping was quiet, but uniform. Rainwater ran along the broken stones from above, puddling upon the ground - where it lacked a path, it merely fell.

The infernal dripping was hellishly loud to her ears.

She came to slowly, and wondered at first if the end had come. The room was swimming in and out of focus. There was an odd, warm and sticky substance coating the back of her neck; it made her hot and uncomfortable, but she found herself unable to move beyond the wiggling of a toe.

"Miss?"

_Gods, too loud._

The sound that left her lips was not quite a grunt, rather a moan of pain. She shifted, forced herself to look up, then flinched and collapsed again as a searing pain shot up along her back. Awake, she swallowed back the wave of nausea that threatened to empty her stomach and tasted bile. Her skin crawled.

"Miss, are you alright?"

_That's definitely not Lear. Who is this, and what does he want?_

She was only somewhat aware that she'd muttered Lear's name aloud, though the only response she'd received was a sense of relief as a rock was shifted off her back. Then a pair of rough, thick hands reached for her arms, gripping them tightly.

"Come on, miss. You've to get up now."

_No, no, no. I don't want to stand just yet, just -_

The hands pulled, and she found herself jerked painfully to her feet. Fighting back the urge to vomit, she was nonetheless unable to contain her faint shriek of surprise. The hands gripped her and held her steady; and shamelessly, she clung on.

When the world had refocused yet again, she saw that the man who held her was tall, dressed in a suit of old, soiled armour. A warrior. He did not smile. "Gotten yourselves into a right mess, eh?"

_Gods, where's Lear?_

She swallowed, then pushed herself free of the warrior's hold. "Lear." Her voice was weak, even pitiful. She ignored the way the other grabbed at her, barely heard his angry cry for her to be careful. Instead, she took two large steps, felt the ground shake once more, then tumbled onto her knees, and found herself side-by-side with her companion. "Lear?"

Lear had curled tightly in on himself; his face was hidden from her, turned into the floor and shielded by one arm, but now that she was close, she could hear faint sounds of keening.

She gnashed her teeth together and squeezed her eyes shut. Her hands fisted themselves - the sharp, throbbing pain in her back dulled a little. She nudged him gently, only somewhat aware that she was being watched. "Lear? Lear, please get up."

He stiffened, his breath hitching and stopping for a second before he jerked away, recoiling from her touch and rolling onto his side. His eyes were unfocused, but wide as he turned towards her.

That look in his face was familiar - somehow, it struck a chord. The lump in her throat resurfaced.

But then the fear faded away, replaced by recognition and relief. "'narei?"

"Hey." She managed a faint sort of smile, then winced as the warm liquid at the nape of her neck oozed down her front. It was blood. "That wasn't too bad, was it?"

She heard the warrior retreat, and realised just then that he likely meant them no harm. Still, she was more concerned with Lear at present, and reached to cup the curve of his shoulder with her hand.

Lear's eyes had shifted from her face to somewhere over her shoulder, and seemed to sharpen. He pushed himself into a half-sit, his left hand nursing his abdomen, and tried to back away, but only managed a pathetic scuttle. Nevertheless, he demanded in a hoarse, unfriendly tone, "Who are you?"

She'd only just opened her mouth to speak, before the warrior grunted in response. It was only then that she'd realised Lear's question wasn't meant for her at all, though his tone of voice was enough to make her withdraw. Her hand fell away. Instead, she moved to check her wound and realised there was a cut beneath her hairline at the nape of her neck - it was seeping, and her fingers came away thickly-coated. The stinging pain on her back told her there was more - but that would have to wait.

"My name is Kormac." The warrior sounded a touch impatient. "I seek something that has been stolen from my order, but that is not your concern. What do you here?"

"That's not _your _concern, I dare say." Lear bit back straightaway, and more than a little venomously. He tried to turn away and get his feet under him, but barely bit back a cry as he failed to stand. He cursed under his breath.

Kormac seemed to smirk - in the dim light of Leoric's crypt, Anarei found she couldn't see very well. It was either that, or she'd been hit harder than she'd realised. She hoped it was the former. "I don't suppose you've come in search of the fallen star?"

"No. Not that."

She heaved a faint sigh, somehow relieved. _At least we won't be butting heads, then._

Lear threw her a sharp glare, and with a grunt of frustration, pushed himself to his feet, shaking and wobbling where he stood. It was only then that she noted the dark stains over his trousers, and the small pool of blood where he lay. And then there was the hand upon his abdomen - not quite succeeding in its attempt to hide the blood beneath.

_We have to get out of here._

As if sensing her thoughts, Kormac strode forward, jerked her roughly to her feet once again. She grunted, tasted blood in her mouth as she bit down upon her lip. This time, however, she managed to stay upright, even when he took his hands off her shoulders.

The sound of shuffling feet caught her attention. She glanced aside slowly, and for the first time since she'd awoke, became aware of the extra company.

_Cultists._

There were only two of them, both clad in the characteristic orange robes of the twisted order. One, she saw, was an older man; the other, younger. Both were bound about their wrists and ankles, both were gagged, bearing traces of what she deemed to be physical abuse - bruises and cuts and gashes. She watched them in silence for a moment; the older stared imperiously at her, the younger avoided her eyes.

_What in the name of the gods and guardians is this, now?_

She turned towards Kormac, who simply shrugged a shoulder. "What did you do?"

"Interrogation. I need to find my order's stolen relics, and they got in my way." Kormac was obviously unrepentant. "Besides, I hear they've been causing a fair bit of trouble in these parts; they've to answer for their crimes either way."

_So he means to see them flogged. Hanged._

She couldn't shake the feeling there would be more of the former. The idea made her nauseous, and the weight in her stomach seemed all the more heavy. "We have to get out of here."

"Let's go find the bloody magic rock and get out of this bloody hole and _then_ out of this bloody town." Wheezes and gasps punctuated Lear's words, but he mustered up enough strength to stare daggers at Kormac. He grabbed her hand roughly, then tugged to usher her along.

_Ouch. Not so fast, it hurts._

She wondered if he'd heard her involuntary whine, but his hold loosened, if only a touch. It didn't offer much comfort.

"Wait, wh-"

Kormac was watching them with mild amusement in his eyes. He jerked his head towards the now-vacated throne.

She blinked.

What had once been the seat of King Leoric in his afterlife was now an opening into a chamber beyond. The seat had sprung free, giving way to a hole large enough for a man to wriggle through. Evidently, Lear had realised this before - he certainly didn't look amused.

"Well, then. Enjoy your rock. I'll likely see the both of you in Tristram, if that's where you're headed." Kormac had made towards his prisoners. Anarei bit her lip, flinched away as she heard the metallic clang of chains. They did not drown out the whimpers of pain that escaped the bound boy.

_He's so young - so little. No doubt he is punished for his naivete, for following the orders of leaders who would see chaos in the world. And now, he will burn for it._

She blinked several times, then forced herself to look away, and instead studied the depths of the passage beneath the throne. An ethereal blue light broke through the darkness. It hurt her eyes.

Somewhere in the depths of her mind, she realised she was holding onto Lear's hand. As the young boy let out a particularly tormented cry through his gag, she squeezed it hard, and without releasing her hold of her companion, dove straight through the hole into the passage.

* * *

He wanted to get out - had wanted to, had _planned_ to leave as soon as they returned their find to Leah, which turned out to be not so much a piece of magical rock, but a _person_.

The man was middle-aged, his skin dark and looked to be beaten over the years by sun and wind, dressed in nothing but rags. He had said nothing on the way back to Tristram, nor had he responded to anything, aside from giving the occasional nod to enquiries regarding his wellbeing. The lady-scholar had opened the door to her room, taken a good look at him, closed the door in their faces, took a few minutes to consult her senile uncle resting within. Then she had opened the door once more, pulled the stranger into the room, and slammed the door again.

Lear guessed that meant his presence was no longer desired. _Good_. He was running out of time, and he needed to go. As soon as possible - _right now_ sounded like a good option.

Except apparently he wasn't going anywhere until Anarei was done with him. Aside from the abuse to his legs, the mace of the Skeleton King had given him several nasty gashes. He was surprised to find that the one cutting across the worst of the scar tissue over his abdomen - the one that hurt the most and brought back unpleasant memories - was actually the smallest and shallowest.

He caught himself fidgeting and realised he had been drumming his fingers on the windowsill continuously while Anarei saw to binding up his wounds. He jerked his eyes away from the window to regard the girl beside him. She had been looking outside, too, but he had the feeling that she, unlike him, might have actually been _looking_.

There were times he saw her flinch - usually to the sounds of screaming, mingled with the jeers and cheers of the various townsfolk gathered about the square.

Kormac's interrogations were in session, it seemed.

Anarei's hand twitched as the cultist in the square screamed once again, amidst Kormac's accusations and demands. In the long hours since they'd returned, the cultist had said nothing - Kormac had begun his interrogations with the older. He'd merely screamed as the jagged spikes of Kormac's lash connected with his back, which surely by now, was shredded beyond repair.

Even in torment and suffering, the elder cultist was unwilling to betray his coven. _You can perhaps take a lesson from the man, hmm? But it's too late now, isn't it? _

"Sorry." The healer muttered faintly as her hand twitched again, then bit her lip - her face was contorted in her concentration, eyes narrowed even as she sank her curved needle into his abdomen, where she worked to stitch the deepest of his gashes together. With her own blood seeping from the back of her neck to stain the hem of her grey tunic, Anarei looked particularly harrowed.

"Why don't you get yourself fixed up first, hmm?" He tried to calm his voice, suppress his own anxiety, but his words still sounded impatient and irritable. "Or even just clean up a bit. I can wait." _Well, I can't, really. But in such predicaments, I'll _have_ to wait, anyway. _

She looked a little hurt at the tone of his voice, but simply turned her gaze to her handiwork in silence, resuming her work. Her shoulders were curved inwards, as if she sought to close herself off to him - yet he knew she was aching. It was evident, both physically, and emotionally. Still, she stitched away, watching with more concentration than perhaps necessary as her silken threads tugged at his flesh, stretching the skin taut. He fought to keep himself from flinching, and looked away from her work.

Her voice was low when she finally responded, barely perceptible amidst yet another bout of wailing from the square. "I'll do that later."

Lear winced as she tied off a stitch, and tried to focus on the sounds from the outside - contrary to their effects on Anarei, the cries and shouts served to distract him from the unpleasant feeling of the needle and thread weaving through his flesh, and keep his mind off more important matters concerning himself.

"Are you... alright, otherwise?" He tried for the tone he was after, once again; this time, it worked better. "You have to get your back looked at; but are you fine or not, aside from that?"

She began to stitch another gash together, her jaw tensing as another cry sounded from outside. "I'm fine." A stitch, and then another, and another - she pulled and dug, the gesture repetitive, then finally lifted her head to gaze at him. The hard lines of her face told him she was fighting a personal battle to keep it together. Her voice was equally stern. "I'm not going to break on you, so don't worry."

Lear caught a slight trace of bitterness on her face before she turned away again, refocusing upon her work.

The cultist was dying, slowly but surely, yet his spirit remained strong, convicted. Kormac, on the other hand, was becoming more and more agitated. Both their lights flared as another scream resounded - one from pain, the other from anger.

He had never been assigned to carry out interrogation and torture. Those had never been his jobs, and he was glad for it. Glad to be spared the frustration that Kormac would be feeling right now.

He focused his thoughts on the templar - such was what Kormac had called himself - and considered his motivations; pondered about the man's order, wondered if it were at odds with his own or if they were in cohorts. As much as Kormac preached justice and righteousness, his methods were a little too familiar.

_Fancy that, someone even more hypocritical than you are! _

Another flare - a crack of the lash rang through the square. This time the scream did not follow.

* * *

The blood flowed thickly down the crudely-built wooden steps that led up New Tristram's makeshift square. There were bits of flesh and rended gore. Kormac had done his job, and had done it well by his standards - yet Anarei wondered, as she watched a crow peck off what had surely been a thumb, just how much information the warrior had gained for his efforts.

_They pray for the mercy of swift deaths in the face of all this darkness. But where was _his _mercy?_

The villagers had dragged the body from the square. From where she stood, so close she could smell the stench of blood and rotting flesh, Anarei allowed her eyes to trail the crimson path. It was vividly painted into the ground as if the deceased had been carelessly dragged by the ankles and thrown into a pit.

She took a step forward, then paused. The vials clinked in her sling-bag, some emptied from her day's worth of work at the infirmary. Some of the older healers had protested her efforts - her back ached, still, if she stretched it too far, and sometimes she fancied she could feel the hot and sticky sensation of seeping blood.

_It's all in the imagination._

Certainly, Anarei felt she might have gone mad if she'd lingered in her room and done nothing. _Da always said that the worst thing to keep was an idle mind._

She took another step forward and found herself in the great shadow cast over her by the structure of her current residence. Overhead, the late-morning sun was bright, yet weak in warmth. Anarei gazed upwards, then found herself looking towards her companion's window. The sight was familiar.

_It has been a while since we'd met, hasn't it? Since the last time I looked up and wondered if he was well._

She realised she'd spent little time checking up on him - his injuries had required some work. The bulk of his torment had centred about his abdomen, yet she couldn't quite shake the feeling Lear had felt more from his fresh injuries than he should have.

The soft, sticky squeak of her booted feet against the bloodstained ground pulled her rudely back into the present. She allowed her companion to drift from her mind, focusing upon the trail of blood so blatantly spilt before her.

_What are you doing?_

She hesitated. The hand poised over the dagger she carried against her left hip reached, grasped the hilt. She carried the weapon by habit; it reminded her of home.

_There's nothing dangerous in there. Just a cultist prisoner, and Kormac is bound to have him in restraints._

The square was mostly empty. Two children knelt to a far corner, flipping marbles against the stones. The town's wives were indoors, serving their husbands and men their meals. In her heart, Anarei realised it was likely that no-one had the spirit to stomach the sight of gore in their square. Certainly, while they had called for the elder cultist's death without pity nor mercy, the people of New Tristram had no desire to glorify the remains of their justice. Instead, they avoided it.

It was all so cowardly, Anarei thought. _To serve justice by your own laws, yet shirk the aftermath as if it had nothing to do with you._

A yelp caused her to jump; she turned hastily and wrinkled her nose. One of the boys had flipped the other's marble into a puddle of blood - it had splashed, and quite suddenly the marble was without home nor owner.

She watched as the boys departed, one berating, the other apologising. Only then did she duck low under the trap door that led down a cellar, careful to sidestep the trail of blood where it flowed in thickly.

The cellar was dimly lit, flickering candles casting shadows of all shapes about the damp hollow carved into the earth. Anarei took a breath, grasped for the elusive calm she knew she would need if she were to stomach whatever sights awaited her eyes. Then she turned - and could only swallow several times in an attempt to quell the retching sensation fast rising in her throat.

_Too fast, Rei. Too much, too fast._

It smelt of death and decay - mostly the latter. Yet it was not the stench that drove her back in a recoil, nor the sounds; tiny clawed feet pattering about corners and the shrill squeaks of rats and other such rodents.

The light was enough - just enough for her to make out the heaped figures piled high about the cellar. If she forced herself to focus upon the cracks in the ground, they would appear no more than shadows against the wall - but the reality was impossible to ignore for long.

Corpses. The broken bodies of New Tristram's ravaged militia, the maggot-infested carcasses of wives, husbands, children. Here were cadavers that had been spared the funeral pyres - they served a twisted purpose. Kormac's twisted purpose.

Anarei was only somewhat aware that she was trembling. The immensity of the situation was not lost on her - she knew what Kormac intended.

_Gods in the heavens and guardians of Virkove. What has he done to the boy?_

The cultist was bound to a roughly-erected post at the center of the cellar, slumped over so that his face was hidden away. In the dim lighting of his grim prison, Anarei saw that his hair was a dirty-blond, stained at the side of his head with blood and sticky lamp-oil; the telltale remains of a smashed glass lamp littered the ground by his knees.

His elder companion - or his remains at the very least, lay propped up close by the entrance. The head had been nearly severed. Someone had staked it crudely into place with the tip of a spear, the silver point of which protruded the side of his skull. She saw the bone of his neck, noted that the cut was jagged and uneven. They'd taken their time with him. In death, his face was taut with horror, yet still defiant.

She turned away. It was only then that she'd realised the boy was watching her. His eyes were grey - and dull, as if he were resigned to his fate.

For just one moment, Anarei wondered how he was still sane.

"Are you going to kill me?" His voice was shrill, yet soft - he sounded nothing as calm as he looked.

She took a step. Somewhere in her mind, her consciousness screamed for her to run - to flee the impending doom of corpses that could rise any moment. The boy's eyes gleamed as they fixed themselves upon her own, not with malice, but with fear, panic, and just a touch of hope.

He begged. With his eyes, he begged - but not for mercy, not for freedom.

"What's your name?" The lump in her throat was heavy. Up close, Anarei found could see the tears that ran down his paper-white cheeks.

She noted a trace of surprise in his face at the simplicity of her question. Yet he obliged, never once looking away. "Ellon."

"You're young."

He watched in wretched silence as she sank onto one knee before him. "Fifteen." It was barely a whisper. "My mother was killed. My father-"

Anarei bit her lip as the boy shifted. The shackles that bound him rattled, echoing off the walls. For a moment, they were both silent. She wondered if he listened, as she did; listened for the sounds of stirring, for the sounds of his end.

_My end too, I suppose, if they rise. If I don't get out in time._ The thought sent chills down her spine.

"My father was approached. They said they could help us, take is in, make sure we weren't harmed by the risen dead. They offered safety, a refuge from this war." Ellon's voice was choked with despair, the fears of a teenage boy facing certain death. "They offered_ safety_."

Anarei felt her jaw tense. "That doesn't change that you joined them at all. That doesn't change the present. We are where we are, Ellon, and there's no way out of this."

He stared at her, his eyes wide. "Lady, I am afraid."

"Anarei." She murmured quietly. The boy whimpered in response, his skin burning against her fingertips even as she reached to cup his tear-moistened cheek. "My name is Anarei."

"They are going to kill me." His voice quavered with his fear; he hesitated, then braved again, this time with a trace of questioning. "They are going to kill me?"

Anarei pursed her lips. Still, he stared, trembling, yet unwavering in his resolve to seek an answer.

_He begs with his eyes - begs for death. _Her jaw tensed, and the lump in her throat warmed to a burning fire. She blinked hard. _Healer, Anarei, or executioner?_

"They are going to kill you." She found she could not recognise herself, nor the solemn undertones of her voice. "I'm sorry."

The boy's resolve crumbled. He slumped, gnashing his teeth together, and she could barely hear the faint, hissed whispers. "Please..." He choked; she saw his tears. "_Please_."

Whatever passed between them, she knew he could see the pity in her face. And she knew, without a doubt, what her conscience urged of her - and hated herself for it.

* * *

Lear took in a long breath, clenched his jaws momentarily, swallowed. He blinked until he was sure he was not going to see red anymore, and tested his voice. "We're not staying here any longer, Lady Leah."

A little voice congratulated him on the controlled quality of his tone, but the woman's voice, deep despite its wry lilt, drowned it out. "Not even to finish things off?"

"We should've been _finished_ a while ago." Lear's eyes narrowed; he couldn't help it. "You told me we could leave as soon as we found the Fallen Star."

"So the Fallen Star happens to be a person, and that person is missing his sword." A bright smile graced her features as she jerked her head, tossing her bangs away from her eye. "You of all people would know... the way a person becomes attached to his or her weapon, the way it becomes an intimate part of one's self."

She uncrossed her legs, leaned forward and poured more tea into the mug before him, ignoring the fact that he had not drank from it at all. "The man can't remember a thing of his past, aside from having a sword and then losing it. Uncle Deckard's pretty certain _that_'s the key to recovering his memories."

"And that's so important to you and your uncle because...?"

The woman's smile shifted, becoming a smirk. Her expression now bore the subtle start of malice. "This man fell from the sky and ended up in the private chambers of the king Leoric. Doesn't that make you wonder?"

"Stranger things have happened before."

"This is strange enough."

"Well, I'm not _interested_ enough to stay and help you solve your little mystery." Lear shifted the mug, planted his hand on the table and pushed himself to his feet. "Pardon me, but you'll have to find someone else to be your errand-boy."

He'd already started to turn when Leah's giggles rang out, and something within them made him stop dead in his tracks.

"Pardon _me_, but you're holding yourself in _much _too high regard, _hound_." The sweetness of her voice made his skin crawl. Beneath the sugar-coating, he could hear the maliciousness. _She really doesn't care about what happens to me at all, does she? _"This is not up to _you_, you see."

He heard the scrape of wood against wood, then footsteps approaching. He was rooted to the ground by what he identified as _fear_. Primal, irrational fear. "I may not know your name, but I know _hers_... you have a soft spot for her, hmm? Surprising that even one of _your_ kind has such weaknesses." Her hand wrapped itself around his left shoulder, two of her fingers digging into the new scar tissues there, and he gasped. "You're in some trouble with your bosses - that much is obvious. It wouldn't be hard for me to get in touch with them; I happen to... know a lot of people."

Using his arm as a fulcrum, she swiveled around to face him. _She's got that face on... so firmly, even now. _He swallowed, blinked to clear his eyes again. "You're threatening me, are you, Lady Leah?" His voice was too shaky for his liking. "You know of my... expertise. So what if I silence you, right here, right now?"

"People would notice if I'm missing, you know. You'd be amongst the first suspects - they've seen you with me, and you're not of Tristram. You and your girlfriend will be detained, people will talk and rumours will spread... all the easier for the people sniffing your trail." She smiled again. Her hands snaked from his shoulder, her other hand slithered over his stomach, before they both pressed down on his chest, making to usher him away from the door and back towards his vacated chair. "She's got a pretty face, I'll admit; those high cheekbones, bright hazel-green eyes, rosy, youthful complexion... her cute brown ringlets... that's one head _neither_ of us want to see on top of a spike, right?"

He saw red then.

It was not the bright, boiling red that he had tried to force away, but a dark, cold red. Maroon, rust, burgundy. With a silver sheen cast over it by the moonlight. A trail, like a torn rug of regal colour, led to the corpses.

The head lay a few feet away.

Lear hit the floor. His vision cleared. He eyed the woman before him - she was crumpled against the wall, looking confused, no longer sure of herself. Had he pushed her? He couldn't recall.

He didn't recall how he ended up in Anarei's room, didn't see the way the girl wiped at her eyes. He only heard the scream of his mind, and perhaps he'd screamed it with his voice, too. She only stared at first, but then he turned away, and his mind's eye saw that she had taken his command nonetheless. He knew she'd begun packing with haste, even as he threw open the door of his own room and tossed the handful of unpacked items into his backpack. He meant to leave long ago, _should have _left long ago.

He didn't wait when Anarei pleaded for him to stop, to tell her what was happening. _No time, no time. _He grabbed her, locked his hand around her wrist. Her shouts and cries fell on deaf ears. His mind continued to scream, urging him to leave, to hide, to run.

So he ran.

* * *

**Authors' Notes:**

**Em: **Phew! Here's our chapter, as promised, perhaps a bit later than expected - but here nonetheless! We're sorry we took so long, but there's a lot of meat in this chapter; we enjoyed writing it, and we hope you enjoy reading it!

**Oph: **Well, what'd you expect, right? With Em having a new job and me recently arriving home from studying and backpacking around central Europe... but we do love this baby of ours, and we love the reviewers and followers! Thanks go out to **Nightbreed6**, **Glint**, and especially **Teletactila**, for such a substantial review. It made my Hamburger day - no, really, I was in Hamburg when I read that.

**Em: **Literally. We spazzed over it and got really giddy and happy. Speaking of happy, we'd best disclaim that BLIZZARD OWNS DIABLO III before they sue the pants off us and make us UNhappy. We own Lear, Rei, all original plotlines, and Leah's bumpkin attitude.

**Oph: **I beg to differ about her bumpkin-ness, in all honesty. Anyway, we've been plotting a lot, and we hope this read is as juicy to you as the idea is to us. Please, if you have any questions, nagging annoyances, or bubbling sentiments, drop us a note! We'd love to know what your opinions are.

**Em: **Indeed! We'd particularly love if those notes came in the form of reviews! Because really, writers need juice to function. So please, hit that review button and we'll see you again in our next chapter! Until then, cheers!


	12. Chapter 11: Deeds and Consequences

**Chapter 11**

**Deeds, Misdeeds and Consequences**

* * *

"So..."

"Yes?"

Anarei bit her lip. It was harder than she thought it'd be, speaking aloud. Then again, they'd barely spoken since the hasty escape made from New Tristram, not three days ago.

She decided to try again, and found her voice quavering. "So. Where are we heading again?"

"North." Lear started to turn back, but stopped before he even got halfway there, and simply snapped off a small branch obstructing his path. "Do you have another suggestion?"

She wasn't quite certain why, but the sound of the snap, so harsh and final, made her flinch. "No. No, I don't."

_North is home. With mam and da and Taranis and Strahan, if he's back._

Still, she was unsatisfied. "But are you going to tell me why we're out here at all?"

"We're getting away from that manipulative witch of an archivist, that's why." His suddenly sounded angry. "I'd rather not head west and you don't want to head east to Lut Gholein. So it's either north or south."

It made very little sense to her.

"I don't care where I head, as long as it's not Lut Gholein." She braved, quietly - at present, she wasn't certain she could take him snapping at her. The persistent nagging in her mind, ever present since her encounter in that dank Tristram cellar, surged forward. She gnashed her teeth together, then fought it away. "We don't have to travel together, you know. It's not like we'd planned on any of this beforehand."

"At this point, I don't want to go to Lut Gholein, neither. But would you rather travel separately?" His voice was, to her relief, mild.

"I don't care." Anarei insisted. She wondered if it was the whole truth after all. "But you dragged me out of there, so I'm inclined to believe that there's a reason for it. Are you going to _tell _me, though?"

"I already told you." Lear sounded impatient, but not particularly irritated. Yet. "We're getting away from Leah. You know as well as I do that she's not the most pleasant person to work with, or _for_."

His impatience grated her own. She found herself clenching her fists, then shut her eyes and took a deep breath. "Getting away from an unpleasant person isn't quite the same as tearing out of a town like its hounds and laws are on your heels."

He was quiet for a long time. She could hear his low grunts of annoyance, but he otherwise offered no response.

"Lear."

A defeated sigh. "I should've left a long time ago. You knew that - I've been telling you just that before the witch even came onto the scene." He turned towards her, and this time, she actually caught sight of his eye before he looked away again. "You asked some time ago... something about threats. Well, she did it again; and this time I just gave up altogether. To hell with her threats."

That didn't sound quite right to her ears, either. Again, she was reminded of how frantically he had yelled for her to pack, how insistent he had been that she followed. How hard he had run, and how deaf he had been to her pleas for an explanation. For hours, they'd merely run. And then the silence followed.

_Enough is enough, Lear. I'm tired of not knowing._

"You're going to have to give me more than that." Anarei sidestepped a stray root, feeling the vials packed within her backpack against the small of her back as they shifted. The clinking sounds broke the temporary silence - and then she continued. "She threatened _you_, and you pulled _me _out of there along with you. So who's she after, Lear? You or me?"

"Both of us," Lear replied straightaway this time. "She's got nothing on you, but you're one of the things she's got on _me_, so..." He hesitated; even in the sudden rise of panic that came with the realisation that she'd gotten on someone's wrong side, Anarei wondered if he were aware of just how little sense he was making. "Just to be sure."

"Wait." She swallowed. Her mouth had gone dry.

_Why would she come after me, of all people?_

The internal response came a touch too swiftly for her comfort. Still, she chose to press on. "Wait, what? I'm... what?"

Lear's voice was weak and somehow reluctant. "You're clean. She's just using you to threaten me. The least I could do is to make sure she stops bothering you."

She took a deep breath. The relief that flooded her lungs was oddly painful, but welcome. For a moment or two, she wondered if this was what she'd have to feel for the rest of her life. But there were other pressing matters at hand.

Blinking hard, she looked towards Lear again. "Why?"

"Why, what?"

"Why is she using me to threaten you?"

He grunted again. "Probably because it's easier to threaten me into helping her run errands and do her bidding than it is for her to find someone else to do it." He stopped suddenly, and turned around to face her with his brows furrowed, though he sounded genuinely concerned. She found it made her uncomfortable somehow, as if he knew more than he was meant to. "Are you alright, Anarei?"

Suddenly, Anarei wondered if it was right to pry into his personal business at all. "Right as rain." She remarked, slowly. It helped to keep her voice steady. "Perfectly perfect."

Lear pursed his lips and spared her another moment of scrutiny, then shrugged dismissively, turned around and kept walking. "Doesn't look it to me. How's the wound on your back doing?"

"Itching up a storm." That, at least, was the truth. "You don't look perfectly fine to me, either."

He sighed heavily, but she fancied she also heard a little snort thereafter. "I can't remember the last time I've felt no pain in my body, to be honest." His hand reached back to tousle his already-messy hair. "But you seem distressed."

"No more distressed than you are." She sighed, shifting the weight of her pack where the strap cut into her shoulder. It stung, but not as much as the sinking pit in her stomach. "We're caught in a pretty bad situation, aren't we?"

_No use denying it now, anyway._

"Well, at least we don't have to deal with the cultist situation anymore. That was bound to get politically-messy, at the rate it was going." He tripped on a protruding bit of bedrock, but managed to regain his balance with his next step. "You didn't see that."

His wry jest did little to inspire a smile, though she humoured him with one anyway. In truth, at that present moment, she wanted to fall so very hard into the earth. "You saw the villages we passed. They burned _everything_. We'll have to deal with them again, in one way or another."

"They're not too much of a problem as far as I'm concerned." His tone became more thoughtful. "From what I saw, I don't think many of them were involved with combat before they started doing... _this_ business. I mean, they're a cult, aren't they? It could very well be made up of people who used to wield shovels and hoes and rakes as opposed to actual _weapons _before they turned to the wrong side."

"Some of them don't have a choice." Anarei pursed her lips. The pit in her stomach burned again, harder, stronger. It made her nauseous. "Some of them are too young, too unlearned, to know better."

Lear shrugged, and remarked almost casually, "It's their choice nevertheless. I'm pretty certain that all the cultists I've seen are above the age of reason." His voice darkened a notch. "Ultimately, you make the decisions, you bear the consequences."

She saw the boy in her head. Sobbing at first - then begging, and then silent, still and boneless like a baby deep asleep.

"No one deserves the end Kormac served." The words came out in a hiss.

He shrugged again. "I don't know much about torture and interrogation, but I'm sure it could've been worse."

She found she could only stare. It occurred to her then that her current companion was either very stoic, or completely and utterly heartless.

Turning on her heels, she strode away, only somewhat aware that he followed in her wake. She wanted to gag, or to scream, curse, and cry - but neither was possible. Her voice cracked - in her mind, she chided herself for it, but knew her efforts to be futile. "Stop following me."

"Wait, Anarei," he called out after her, and there was confusion in his voice. "If you want to part ways, that's fine, but not like this - at least wait until the next stop."

"Where?" She turned around, saw the way surprise registered in his face as she shrieked the word aloud. Her heart was pounding in her chest - the panic, suppressed so long, had finally surfaced. "Where's our next stop, Lear? Where is it?! What are we even _doing_?"

He seemed at a loss for how to react, guilt creeping its way into his face and posture as he backed half a step, and carded his hand slowly through his hair. He held his silence for a long minute, then finally murmured - quietly, tentatively - "You can go home."

Anarei growled, then turned away, brushing her hands roughly over her eyes. They were dry at present, but she could feel the tears coming; the thought annoyed her to no end.

_That's what you've been doing, isn't it? All you've been doing? Crying like a baby. This stops now. Right now. You've made your decision - you helped someone to die with dignity. That's your choice and you'll live with it, now. No tears.  
_

The admittance felt good. She hadn't counted on it being so easy. But there was still Lear, before her, watching her. Angrily, she muttered, "I was going to stay in New Tristram. Until I was certain."

His hostility returned in an instant; his words were hard and cold. "Not when the little witch is about to sell me out. You can't stay in Tristram; you're too deep in my mess and if they find you -" He cut himself off, shook his head sharply, and regained some composure as his voice softened. "You can't go back there. I'm sure we'll find another village once we come near the gulf or the foothills."

It occurred to her then that she'd forgotten about Lear's problems in the light of her own. Throughout their weeks spent together, she'd begun to accept that he would remain an enigmatic stranger to her, and no more. Yet here he was, ready, she thought, to talk.

She sighed. The fire in her stomach had cooled a little. Her hands were clammy; she wrung the fabric of her blouse with her fingers as she regarded him, gripping tight. "Your mess, Lear? Are you ever going to tell me about that? You ask me if I'm alright, yet you refuse to answer when I ask _you _in turn. What do you want from me?"

Lear frowned, though his posture slumped as he bit on his lip. His eyes were locked upon her, yet she noted they didn't seem to be looking _at_ her. After several seconds, he finally lowered them. "I'm sorry I dragged you out here, and into this mess. But you saved my life, so I suppose I owe you... I just... don't want to owe you any _more_." He lifted his eyes again, and this time he _did_ look at her. "I want you to be safe."

She met his eyes and hated the effect it had on her. Calm. "The boy, the cultist boy Kormac brought in." The words were softly spoken, but they were like bricks in her throat as she stepped towards him. "I wanted to stay until I could be sure they knew he was gone. I wanted to be certain they knew it was a _natural _death."

For an instant Lear's frown deepened, then his face relaxed as his eyes widened. He blinked once, evidently having come to the realisation. "Oh, so it _wasn't _natural." He sounded oddly neutral. "I thought he did a good job with hanging in there, in his condition... but it makes sense this way, too." He nodded, apparently satisfied with this new-found knowledge. "Got attached to him, did you? He was young."

"I didn't get attached." The defensiveness in her voice surprised even her. Yet she forced herself to look him in the eye, forced herself to tell him. "I just didn't want to hear another man scream."

He nodded again, this time in acquiescence and understanding. "That's fair." Taking a moment to deliberate, he continued in that all-too-neutral voice, "Well, no Tristram-folk's coming after you or anything. You did him a favour. Don't look so sad about it."

"Did I?" Anarei gritted her teeth. His apathy irritated her, but she swallowed and took a breath, willing herself to stop thinking about it - to stop thinking about Ellon and his dead cold hands, his dead, dull eyes. She knew her voice was low - but her words were meant for only Lear, anyway. "I don't know about that. But here's where we are, now. You know what's troubling me. Are you going to tell me what's troubling you? We're out here together - you _dragged _me out here. You owe me this."

He clapped a hand to his forehead, squeezed his eyes shut as if having foreseen this troublesome turn of events, and groaned, "Ugh. What's troubling me is the archivist witch - you know that. Her, her petty-but-dangerous errands, her senile uncle with one foot in the grave, her stupid smile, her annoying laugh." His words grew increasingly hurried and heated. "I'm here because I have to be _away_ from _there_. From _her_."

_Of course he'd weave about the subject. He always does._

Anarei wondered if she could push him to divulge, when she herself was scraped almost raw. The archivist, at the moment, was the least of her worries - but evidently, she had become one of Lear's biggest problems.

She sighed, feeling the involuntary slump of her shoulders. The whole situation exhausted her. "Lear, tell me how she's threatening you. What she's holding over your head."

Instantly, he planted his feet and his entire body seemed to stiffen. He looked at her, looked away, and repeated that sequence once more, before taking a deep breath. Only after did he face her, and even then, he kept his gaze averted. "Let's just say... you helped the boy die - that makes two of us. Only... _you_ didn't make a mistake."

She resisted the urge to grab onto him; and knew she would fail. She took a step forward. "And you made a mistake? Is that it?"

Lear seemed to curl in around himself - dipped his head lower, rolled his shoulders forward. His voice was weak. "I made too many."

The hand that reached to him was trembling, but she clutched his arm and held on tight, anyway. Alone in the wilds, Anarei realised how much she'd missed a human touch. There was a lump in her throat now, that corresponded heavily with a sentiment long tucked away.

He'd been crying and thrashing in bed; she'd held him. They'd not spoken of it, and instead pretended it had not happened.

She thought of it now. Wondered if she did, after all, want to know; then murmured, gripping his forearm through the fabric of his sleeve, "Lear, are you running because you took a life?"

He made a pathetic attempt at tugging his arm out of her grip, but managed to turn his face out of her view. "And now they want to take mine, in return. All's fair. You helped me - so in their eyes, you're an accomplice. I'll make sure you're safe, and try to muster up enough decency to accept my judgement in the meanwhile." He deflated with his sigh. "I shan't take long."

She could not move, could not speak. It was as if a dreadful cold had washed over her, and had frozen the soles of her feet to the ground.

_Killer. He's a killer, and now, I am too._

Numbly, she nodded.

* * *

Leah was unimpressed.

She didn't like foreigners terribly much - especially those who stirred up drama. And this man, who called himself a templar, definitely provided his share of drama, and only in a matter of a few days.

The interrogation. The public execution. The rumours about what the man had coaxed out of the cultist before he was turned into a corpse - and thankfully _that_ corpse remained inert - those were all she'd heard from the townsfolk in the recent days. In the meantime, the surly hound had made his escape with his pretty little girlfriend, seemingly without causing much alarm, at all.

_It's _my_ town the cultists are threatening, damn it all. Whatever information he has, we of Tristram have a right to it._

"Thanks for sparing some of your time to meet with me, mister." The smile came to her easily. She set her tray of ale and pastries onto the table.

If she was unimpressed, it could only be said that the templar was similarly disenchanted. He sat hunched over the table, dwarfing it with his size - he was a man of considerable stature, after all - and glowered at her tray.

"What do you want, then?"

It was not often that a man should react to her smile and friendly attitude in such a way, but Leah was not so easily fazed. "Something that's rightfully ours, Templar." She sat herself down in the chair opposite the hunk of a man. Kicked one leg up and crossed it over the other. "We provided you with a stage and an audience, and even cleaned up afterwards. So in exchange, I want to know what you got out of that spectacular show you put on the other day."

He scoffed at her, slamming one large palm into the table. The tarnished metal plates rattled upon the wood. "Not nearly enough." By all accounts, he was a gruff man - but lacking in the compassion of other gruff men she had known. He peered at her. "I would've questioned the whelp too, but he ended it by his own terms. Bit his tongue clean in half. Bled to death."

Leah snickered - not that the imagery, or the idea was really all that amusing, it just felt like something she ought to do. _Then again, Kormac's frustration _is_ rather amusing_. "At least the little whelp had the stones to do it, hmm?" _Unlike the hound, who just ran off with his tail between his legs. _"Seems to me like you caught two stubborn bulls. Better luck next time?"

"Aye, next time." Kormac rolled his eyes. His hand gripped the tankard by his side, swirling the remains of his light ale about. "Lady Leah, what do you really want from me? This is pleasant and all, but I'm afraid I'm not quite free enough to be sitting here enjoying tea cake and ale on a social basis."

"_We_ want a way to get rid of these cultists. That's all, Mister Kormac. Peace and harmony, an ordinary life, you know... that kind of thing." She wondered if she'd be able to tempt the man if she took a drink and had a bite, so she went ahead and tried. "And if you know of a way to alleviate the current undead issue -" She washed her cake down with a gulp of ale. "- even better."

He merely watched her, his half-lidded eyes narrowed, as if he were bored. Yet it appeared he had taken her words to heart; or, at the very least, had heard them. "We have no reason to believe that the cultists are the cause of the risen dead - they're wary enough of the corpses."

In her head, Leah divided the ideas into two sides: the undeads, the Stranger previously known as the Fallen Star, and his missing sword on one side; on the other, cultists and Kormac. _No matter. Even with the hound and his girlfriend gone, I have enough leads. Just need to get people on my side to follow those leads, now. _

"I'm failing to believe you've extracted absolutely _nothing_ from that cultist. Or is that saying something about your interrogation skills?" She felt a smirk coming on, and nodded at the table after helping herself to another piece of pastry. "You're here, and you have ale and tea cakes. You might as well enjoy them."

Kormac's response was deliberately made. He jerked his head impatiently to the side. "I don't like tea cake. There are more important things than sweets in this time of war, Lady Leah." He pursed his lips, his bearded jaw tensing as his brows furrowed. "The cultist said nothing I didn't already know. They work under the leadership of a witch; they seek to rid this Sanctuary of the Angiris taint."

"Well, they want to be angel-slayers. That's rather ambitious." Leah leaned her elbows onto the table; try as she might, she found that she could not muster up a smile for what she was about to say. "So why are they killing _our_ people? It's not like we're smuggling angels."

For once, Kormac smiled; a sadistic sort of grin that stretched his lips taut, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Every order has its runts. Besides, the coven doesn't care who it kills, so long as the Angiris council is destroyed." He fisted his hand. "They _have _to be working for some greater force - someone capable of fulfilling their mission. We'll find them, and end them."

_I've seen a good few runts lately, huh. _"And what of _your_ order, Templar? What of _your_ runts?"

"That's not quite your business, neither." A curt response, followed by a sneer of sorts. "But our runts are disposed of. Without hesitation."

"Pardon me for prying, then." Leah beamed. She was getting to know this man - his temper was remarkable, but she didn't think it was all that complicated. "We have a common enemy in the cultists, do we not? I don't like that they're killing my people, and you don't like them for... whatever reason your order told you." She leaned onto her elbows, thrusted her chest forward as she looked Kormac in the eyes. "Dare I say we may stand a chance of combining our efforts in weeding them out of this town?"

He scoffed at her again, and she fancied she saw a gleam of dark amusement in the depths of his eyes. "I'll run them out myself." He raised a hand, as if to silence any forthcoming protest - not that she had been about to. The table creaked as he pushed against it to stand, the legs of his chair scraping heavily against the wooden floors beneath them. "Just stay out of my way, lady."

* * *

She was hungry, she was cold, and above all, her socks were wet.

_It's no wonder Lut Gholein is so dry. Kande was right; the clouds _do _dump all the rain onto the western side of the mountains. _

She almost _hoped _that there would be some foe on the way, just so she could get her limbs moving, stay a bit warmer, but it would seem that someone had cleared her path relatively well - it had been most of a day since she'd last killed. She reminded herself not to get cocky - she was nearing Tristram, and the evils here were far different from those in the mountains. Rumour had it that they were more... human.

She scowled in distaste at the idea of having to kill a human being, but Tristram, with its many inhabitants, and being the intersection of various trade routes, was her best bet.

It would also imply that she'd be able to find some good food and a decent place to sleep that night. Her scowl faded at that thought, and with renewed vigour, she marched onwards through the persistent drizzle. She came across corpses - mostly those of farmers and loggers, judging from the tools lying nearby, but there were also corpses of cultists.

That was it. Just corpses, evidently dead for weeks. Nothing reanimating. She had missed the action by some time, it would seem.

_Keep going. Don't look at their faces. You can't bury them all. _

She'd walked through the gates of New Tristram come nightfall, found some lodging at a dingy little inn, made a mental note to carry all her valuables when she was out - and to brace the door when she was in. She washed her hair, changed her socks, gathered all her coin, then went and sought out the bar with the most noise and light.

Drunken slurs and ecstatic laughter filtered out from a bar that seemed, by the scaffolding and canvas-covered windows on the upper levels, to be in the process of being rebuilt. The sign hanging out the front depicted an ox with its throat slit.

She shrugged and strode in. She sat down at the bar, ordered a tankard of ale and whatever stew-of-the-day was being served.

Then she waited. Listened, watched.

The night was still young - married couples were only just starting to retire, and the young and restless had barely begun to enjoy themselves. She ate slowly, patiently chewing the overcooked and tasteless meat, and waited for someone to approach her.

_Perhaps I'll have to take a more active approach in this place. All the men seem to be orbiting around one Little Miss Giggles in the corner over there. _

She finished her stew and stretched her sore back, tossing her dark, rich curls over her shoulders as she did. She turned around, and sure enough, a young man met her eyes within seconds.

If there was one thing she'd learnt since embarking on this wild goosechase almost two months ago, it was the effect her eyes had on the men of the western side of the mountains. _Honestly, you'd think they'd never seen a dark woman with pale eyes before. _

She smiled as he walked over.

"You're not from here, are you, miss? I don't think I've seen you around before." He was relatively young. _Good, I'm not sure I'm in the mood to try and get answers from dirty old men. _"Have you eaten?"

"I have," she said, her voice traitorously tired and anxious. "But I wouldn't say no to another drink."

He smiled, showing off a row of clean, straight white teeth. One hand moved to wave at the barkeep. "What would you like? My name's Shan, by the way. What do I call you?"

She couldn't help but feel her smile warm. This man was courteous, at least. _Those are few and far between, in places like this. _"I'm Chryse. Nice meeting you, Shan. I'll have whatever you're having - since you're a local, you should know what to recommend, yes?"

Shan chuckled heartily, then offered a quick nod of the head. Somewhere behind her, the barkeep slid two large, wooden tankards their way; he caught them with his hands, then handed one to her. It was frothy; small ale. "Some merchants came by a few days ago. First few since the trade routes reopened. You've heard what happened, yes?"

"Heard," she muttered through the froth as she took a deep sip. It was a sweeter ale than the one she'd had at the start of her meal. "And saw the aftermath as I came in, regrettably. Tristram must've suffered quite a bit too, huh?"

"Some say the land is cursed." Shan took a long draught before setting his mug down; he'd emptied half of it. "But what can we do, eh? This is home to so many of us. Leaving isn't an option, though you'd think more of us would consider it when there's been so much death."

Chryse shrugged, resting her elbows upon the bar-top as she tipped the tankard to take another drink. "It's probably still better-defended than a lot of the smaller villages I went through on the way here. You, at least, have a bit of an organised army. So... perhaps even _more_ people would be seeking refuge here, as time goes on." She frowned; she needed to steer the conversation, direct it towards her goal, otherwise she'd be here all night. As pleasant as Shan was, she wasn't in the mood to stay up too long. "Has that been happening?"

"To some extent." He drummed his fingertips against the sides of his tankard, where beads of water had begun to form. "We've had an influx of visitors, of course - some refugees, some reinforcements. But some of them left once they saw it was safe enough for travel again."

She wondered if she hadn't seen some of _those_ on the way here, who ended up lying dead and mangled on the ground, despite their precautions. "Has any of those travellers... _died _- no, what am I saying -" She hated the weakness in her voice, and took several large gulps of ale to calm herself. "I meant, has there been anyone... of note? I'll be honest with you, Shan. I'm trying to find someone. I was hoping you'd be able to help me."

_Too desperate, but here it is. _

He peered at her for a moment, looking somewhat confused. Then her words seem to register, and he nodded slowly in understanding. "Who are you trying to find, then? Man, woman, boy, girl?" A pause - then he smiled somewhat roguishly, the tone of his voice playful. "Boyfriend?"

Chryse couldn't help rolling her eyes. "A liability, of sorts. I'm after a... man." She scratched her head at that. He was still a boy, in her memory. Always older, always looking at her from above, but a boy, nevertheless. "A young man. Tallish. Fairer than me, greenish-greyish eyes, pale brown hair. He's not from around here."

Shan chuckled deeply, the sound rich and warm. "Not from here, eh." He paused a moment, lifting a hand to scratch at the tip of his nose, eyes downcast as he considered her description. "I don't think I've seen anyone like that around here. You sure he came 'round this way?"

She scoffed, dug her hand into her scalp, no longer bothering to hold back the anxiety in her words. For the umpteenth time since she left home, hopelessness crept up on her. "I'm not sure. I don't really have much of a lead, but I thought I'd have better chances here than anywhere else, since so many people from all the adjacent towns and cities come through here."

"I'm sorry." Shan looked genuinely apologetic, now. He bent a bit closer, fixing aqua-blue eyes upon her face. His voice was low. "A lot of us died - fighting, standing, running - they just kept coming. If it makes you feel any better, I haven't seen anyone we'd cremated who looked like what you'd just described."

_Okay. Here, it would seem, is someone who's actually decent. Be nice._ Chryse didn't think he'd proposition her. Still, she would be careful - goodness knew _he_ would be warning her over and over about this. "I... don't suppose you keep any form of... registries for the people coming in and going out of Tristram, these days, when everyone's always flocking from one place to another?"

His smile lacked irony - it was only a little bit sad. "In times of war? There are too many refugees, Miss Chryse." Clearly, he'd lost all interest in chatting her up. If anything, he merely looked tired, now. "But you can ask Lady Leah, if you'd like. She knows just about everything that goes on in here, and she'd been caught up in a bit of trouble herself recently with a couple others. Mad dash to save her elderly uncle from the clutches of the risen Mad King Leoric, all that."

She knew she should be feeling bad about getting his attention, only to throw him a bunch of questions for her benefit, but feeling bad could wait until later. For now, she merely blinked in confusion. "Lady who?"

"Leah." He jerked his head back towards the crowd seated so close behind them. "Deckard Cain's niece. She'll probably be able to help you more."

Chryse looked around, and felt annoyance bubble in her stomach. "Little Miss Giggles?" She bit hard on her lip immediately after; she hadn't meant to blurt that out.

To his credit, Shan laughed out aloud. "She's a bit too bubbly for my liking, too. But as you can see, all the other male attention has her very, very happy. You'll excuse her giggling - she's a lady after all." His eyes twinkled good-naturedly. "Go on, then. Go look up your man."

She made a face at him. "He's not my _man_. I just don't want him to get into trouble." She drained the rest of her tankard, slid out of her chair and dipped her head at Shan. He really _was _quite decent, after all. "I'm sorry I turned out to be so... cheerless, Shan, even after you'd bought me a drink." She quirked a little smile. "You're nice. I hope I'll see you around, some other time? We can actually _talk_, then, if you wish."

He smiled then - wider, warmer. "Sure."

Chryse grinned, actually feeling happy, for once. Glad to have met someone, a stranger, who was kind enough to help purely for the sake of wanting to help. "Thank you. I'll come back here tomorrow." She gave him a brisk wave, then turned around and took a deep breath to clear her head.

_Leah. What a name. What are the chances? _

She had no energy to battle her way through the crowd of men, all of whom seemed to be... enchanted by the lady's voice.

_Is she a siren? _

It would seem that Little Miss Giggles intended on spending the entire night bathed in attention. Chryse considered waiting, but when Leah spontaneously kissed one of the men - with _both_ their tongues on display - she called it a night.

She found Leah easily enough the following day - after a brief inquiry with the innkeeper, she'd discovered that the woman was a scholar, an archivist, and an archer, amongst other things, and liked to enjoy a bit of light-reading at the square after the early-morning bustle. Chryse had her doubts when she saw the remnant patches of bloodstains on the paving stones, though evidently, Leah had no qualms about them, as she sat upon a crude wooden platform in the middle of the square - and it was even more stained than the ground.

Chryse shuddered. She wanted nothing better than to render the miserable wooden structure into a pile of ashes. As it was, it made her feel sick. "Lady Leah?"

The other woman merely flipped another page in her tome. "Mm - yes?"

Chryse did not expect that sort of response. "I have a favour to ask of you, Lady Leah... a few questions and a problem, really. I was told you could help."

"Come over here," Leah said with a hint of impatience, waving her over without lifting her head. "It's too early to be shouting back and forth."

Chryse considered the bloodstains, and sucked on the insides of her cheeks. "I'd rather not."

Leah shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Chryse growled helplessly, but she would relent - for him, she would relent.

_I'll get to punch him in the stones for all this trouble afterwards, at the least. _

She climbed the makeshift stairs to reach the top of the platform, and tried not to scowl in distaste at the sight of the young woman sitting in a patch of relative-brown amidst a sick smeared-patchwork of rusty red. There was no way she was going to sit down. "Lady Leah, I'm trying to find someone. Word on the street is that you know the people of this town better than anyone."

Leah finally looked up from her reading. Her bangs obscured her right eye as she lifted her head, though she was visibly bored. "And who are you?"

"Chryse, from Lut Gholein." She fought to keep her expression mild and her voice calm. "If there's anyone who can help me, it's you, miss."

Leah seemed to consider this seriously. "I'm a scholar, Chryse." She marked her page with a beaded bookmark, closed the tome and straightened her back. "I don't give out knowledge free of charge."

"This isn't about _that_ sort of kno-"

"What can you offer me in return?"

Chryse clamped her jaw shut - she was going to start shouting otherwise. _Damn, she sure is self-important. _She clenched her fists, took a deep breath, held it, then released it slowly. Her voice was satisfactorily neutral as she spoke again, "Is this platform here to stay?"

"No, we're going to take it down whenever the carpenters get a breather from rebuilding everything else."

_Then how did they have the time and effort to build it in the first place? _"Let's get off, and I'll show you what I can offer to your warring town, Lady Leah."

That seemed to have piqued her interest; Leah jumped to her feet and, after throwing her one last look of skepticism, hopped down the stairs. For her part, Chryse practically leapt down, spun on her heels, and flexed her hand.

"So, what were you going to sh -"

Leah's words abruptly halted as a bright orb, tinted a vicious shade of gold, crashed into the platform.

The entire structure collapsed in an instant, leaving behind a pile of splintered, smoldering wood where it had stood just seconds ago. Chryse heaved a sigh of relief as the golden glow faded from her hand; she was glad that she didn't have to _look _at the accursed thing anymore.

"Well, well, well." Leah sounded mildly impressed. "What do you want from me, then?"

"I'm looking for someone called Lear." The words were hurried, and much too needy for her liking. Not that she could help it at this point. "He's a young man, twenty years old. He's not as fair as you are, but paler than I am." She swallowed; her throat was going dry. This was her best bet for tracking him down since she'd left home, and she prayed desperately that it would pay off. "He has straight, faded brown hair, and his eyes - they have two colours, green and grey."

Leah tossed her bangs off her eye, revealing her single raised brow. "I recall the eyes."

Chryse felt like her heart was about to leap out of her chest. "You do!"

"But he didn't have that hair. His hair was silver - no, _grey_ would be more accurate."

"Yes - yes! That's him!" Chryse couldn't stop herself from hopping on the spot. "Where is he?"

"So _that_'s his name?" Leah chuckled, having ignored Chryse's question. "Fancy that. He took off not a week ago, with his little girlfriend." Her chuckle escalated into peals of amused laughter. "Oh, gods... it's going to be quite a show if and when you catch him, huh?"

Having ascertained that Lear was indeed alive and somewhere out there, Chryse found it slightly easier to be patient. "What are you talking about?"

"What is he to you?" Leah smirked, her bangs falling back over her eye. "A lover? I'm sorry to tell you - it'd appear your dear boyfriend has been cheating on you."

Finally, it made sense. "Ugh," She grunted irritably and rubbed her face with her hand. "He's _not_ my lover."

"So... you're from the people who's after his head? That doesn't make much sense, neither."

"I'm only after his stupid head so I can drag him home by his hair." Chryse planted her hands on her hips, and scoffed angrily. "He's my brother."

* * *

**Authors' Notes: **

**Oph: **And after last chapter's relative shortness, we present to you another longer chapter, where there be much revelations! Feel free to piece things together, and we'd love to hear all of your speculations! While the Diablo franchise belongs to Blizzard, many of these plot points belong only to us. So Google can only take you so-far!

**Em: **Indeed! And while you're at it, drop us a review! We're in much need of spazz-juice and your input really helps. We hope you like the new addition to the cast - and don't worry, we've definitely not forgotten about Lear and Rei, though the sparks should fly when Chryse catches them, hey?

**Oph: **Sparks. And there exist different kinds of sparks. Anyway, thank you to those who'd reviewed: **Nightbreed6**, **Tarnished Libris**, and a certain **Guest** reviewer. And since the last of these couldn't be privately replied, Em and I would just like to disclaim again - you _will_ find discrepancies and inconsistencies in this fic when compared with the game-canon. In fact, while we follow the setting and general context of the game, the canonic characters in particular will only deviate more from here.

**Em: **We do this on purpose, too - because what's the fun in making everything exactly the same as canon, eh? Might as well just go play the game again and again if that's the case! What we want is to create a story that fits into Blizzard's magical realm, and at the same time, give y'all a story and real characters to root for. We hope we've managed to do just that so far.

**Oph: **I'd also like to mention the fact that we've planned _so_ far down the track for this fic, we've put in lots of foreshadowing and little Easter eggs for you all to hunt... we'd like to employ something TV Tropes call "Chekhov's Gun". Look it up, and get looking, if you so wish. We sure love hiding them. Hope you've enjoyed the read, and see you all next time!


	13. Chapter 12: Only Decency

**Chapter 12**

**Only Decency**

* * *

Chryse had to admit that as irritating as Leah was, she had a way with words and making good sense out of complicated matters.

At least while she was speaking, anyway. "So... this stranger is important because... he's somehow disturbed the balance of power - or something - and this caused the undeads to rise?" Chryse had to straighten this out in her head now, or she had a deep suspicion that she'd become very confused later on. She drank deeply from the cup of lavender-infused tea; it seemed to ward off an impending headache.

Leah nodded, and smiled in a heartfelt manner. The archivist was clearly more comfortable in her room - a larger room set aside from all the other lodging space at the inn, it was personalised with tomes, stationery and artefacts. The walls were plastered with sketches and passages written in unknown languages, and there was a strong smell of old parchments mixed with candle wax. The ambience made Chryse sleepy.

"Of course, you must also remember - he crashed into the cathedral in the form of a shooting star. No man should've survived that." Leah leaned back into her cushioned chair, looking satisfied.

Chryse shook her head sharply and held up a hand. "Don't push it. I'm still not sure if I can believe that." She grumbled, then sucked in the sides of her cheeks as she tried to think. "So now you want me to go after his... broken weapon, because it may help him remember?"

"It's the best chance we've got." The older woman shrugged, picked up another cookie and nibbled on it.

Chryse frowned, pushed back the urge to shout by gulping down another mouthful of tea, and checked her temper before she responded. "And how are you going to even _start_ finding it? This man streaked across the sky, like some... rainbow fairy... and his sword - _if _that's what it is - shattered in the process." She allowed her voice to raise a touch. "We don't even know _how_ many pieces it's in, now, and where those pieces landed, do we?"

"We've got some ideas on that," Leah said calmly. "There were some reports of strange cases of lightning nearby, the day this stranger crashed into our cathedral. You're right in that we don't know just how broken this sword is, but we can start by paying the Fields of Misery a visit. Local rangers there mentioned a huge bolt of lightning striking some certain building of theirs, and there was strangely no fire damage when they checked up on it afterwards."

"Sounds like a jolly place for a vacation, huh."

"It's only a nickname," Leah giggled. "I have to distinguish the grain fields surrounding this place _somehow_, and that particular area boasts the biggest use of human corpses as fertiliser. On the upside, they grow really great sweet-corn."

Chryse frowned and swallowed; spared herself a moment to wonder just what had gone wrong in the archivist's life to make her giggle at such things. "I'm not sure I want to go on what could be a fool's errand, Lady Leah, especially when I'm running the risk of losing my damn head. You said the stranger's in your care. I want to talk to him, in person."

Leah shot an aside glance at a small doorway tucked away in a corner of the room, then narrowed her eyes - just barely, but quite enough to darken the air about her. "I'm not sure if that's wise. He's not exactly up for chatters." She paused, blinked, and sighed softly. "Though I suppose... if you see him, you'll at least be convinced that he really _did_ have the misfortune of being sent streaking across the sky and crashing into the ground."

_The fact that anyone could survive such a thing in one piece at all is hard enough to swallow. And then again, who's to say he isn't lying?_

Still, she followed as Leah lead the way. They passed through the small doorway, which opened up to some flights of stairs, and walked in silence, save for the sound of the archivist occasionally tossing chocolate-dotted biscuits into her mouth and crunching on them.

It wasn't until they'd stopped at the last door of the third floor that Leah turned to face her again, one hand poised upon the handle. "He's not fully recovered and doesn't remember much of anything. Not even his name."

Chryse gave a noncommittal nod; Leah nudged the door open. Like her own, it was mostly bare but for the essentials: a bed, a chest of drawers, a writing table and a chair. Sunlight streamed through the tiny crack between the loosely-drifting curtains, providing dim lighting for an otherwise darkened room. The stranger sat upon his chair, his hulking frame slouched over the desk. Whether or not he had truly fallen from the heavens and survived, the man looked genuinely defeated. He did not glance up, not even when Leah walked straight to his side and placed her small hand upon his great shoulder.

"Sir?" The archivist spoke up gently as she gave his shoulder a little squeeze. "How're you doing? Alright, I hope?"

_Wow, she's actually managing to be _not_ callous. _

He turned then, his slightly widened eyes the only sign of his having been startled at all. The curtains shifted lazily, likely from a draught coming from the hallway, and the sunlight glinted off his eyes.

Amber. Warm, golden amber. Sharp, despite recent events. _Or what he claims has happened, anyway._

"I'm sorry, Miss Leah." Those eyes darted towards the archivist, then met her own - the lines upon his face denoted his exhaustion, though his voice told the tale just as well. "Miss. I did not hear you approaching. I'd get up, but... well."

It wasn't difficult to feel sorry for the man, and sympathetic warmth found its way into her tone easily. "No! No, sir, it's quite alright. There's no need for formalities... I'm Chryse."

He straightened a little, reached with one large hand to rub at the back of his dark, bald head. After a moment, he held it out, his thick fingers calloused and rough-looking. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Chryse. I would introduce myself, only I have not a name to give you."

Chryse felt for the man. She searched her heart and found that she couldn't blame him even if he _did_ make up everything; the confusion and helplessness in his face, his voice, his posture - even his slack grip as she took his hand - those were all genuine. She tried for a comforting smile. "Just Chryse will do, sir. Now..." She glanced at Leah, who merely took half a step back and crossed her arms over her chest, her expression neutral. Taking that as permission to proceed, Chryse dragged a chair over to sit before the stranger. "...I heard about your lost weapon from Lady Leah here. It means a lot to you, doesn't it?"

His gaze was earnest as he nodded. "I don't know why it _should _mean as much as it does, but it's the only lead I have. I only remember falling." There was a faraway cast to his eyes now, and he lapsed into a momentary silence; she saw the way his hands clenched the arms of his seat, the way his face was contorted with concentration as he struggled with his thoughts. "I remember the lights streaking across your lands. At first I thought it was just lightning, but I feel empty somehow, like parts of myself are scattered away."

Chryse chewed on her lip as she thought hard. _This doesn't make sense… I'm sure this makes as little sense to me as it apparently does him, but does that even matter? _

She looked up, looked into the stranger's eyes, considered the lines around them, the shadows beneath them, the unfathomable lostness within them. _Here is a man deserving of help, just because he needs it. _He_ would tell you it's right to help, if for no other reason but to respect your elders._

_I suppose I can spare this poor man a little bit of my time. At least I know Brother's alive, and he has company with him to make sure he stays that way... Leah _did_ mention a certain "girlfriend"... _

Chryse reached out and grasped his hand. It felt large and rough, but disproportionately weak and cold. "I'll help you, sir. I'll try to recover your weapon, and maybe you can remember and things will make a whole lot more sense for the _both_ of us, hmm?"

His smile was barely there, but he appeared genuinely thankful. The hand about her own tightened its grip a bit - then he nodded, blinking hard. "Thank you."

"Nothing to it, sir. Just get yourself better." Chryse mustered up the biggest, brightest smile she could manage, patted the stranger's hand once, and without another word, got to her feet and strode out of the room.

She could hear a rhythmic set of footsteps bounding down the stairs as she hurried out. "So... what happened to the whole, I-don't-want-to-go-on-a-fool's-errand, eh?"

"Shut up."

* * *

"Shut up."

"_You_ shut up. You're sneezing, shivering, and huddled in a corner, so I'd say you're not exactly in a position to be arguing with me right now, mister."

Lear's response to that was only to groan grudgingly, and to draw his coat around him more tightly. He'd refused to put it on while his cloak was hung up and drying, but he had been unusually obliging after she'd insisted otherwise with some force.

_What a big baby. _Try as she might, Anarei found she simply could not be mad at him. Difficult or not, Lear was ill - and in their current conditions, following the heavy downpour of rain the night before, she wondered if he would be able to recover properly at all.

The rain had come without warning. Thunder clouds rolled over the hills and the valleys, thick and stifling with humidity, and within a matter of minutes started to dump torrential rain over the land. It was all they could do to find higher ground before the rivers broke their banks and roared down the slope, almost sweeping them away along with all the vegetation and mud carried by the turbulent water. When they'd finally found shelter in a small, deserted village, they were soaked to the bone.

_At least the rain helped put out the fires._

She did _not _want to think about what had happened in the village. They hadn't seen any corpses; it was as if all its inhabitants had suddenly disappeared - either taken away, or migrated to better pastures. She hoped it was the latter. Still, it was far too dangerous to hide out in the open, and so they took up to holing away in the cellar beneath one of the village's smaller houses.

Even as she cursed the possibility of having to forage for supplies in the abandoned village, Anarei was grateful for it. It kept her mobile and busy - kept her mind off the unpleasant thoughts that haunted her still. As far as she knew, it was still storming - but they would need food soon.

_And he's certainly not in any shape to get any._

"I'm going to ask you one more time. How bad does it feel?"

Lear sneezed into his sleeve and grunted. "I can keep going once we're done waiting out this storm."

"Wrong answer." She scowled, biting back the urge to smack him upside the head. Instead, she reached to feel his forehead - somehow, she got the feeling that'd make him even more uncomfortable. "You're starting to burn up. This is what you get for running around in the rain - while you're not completely healed from your ordeals, even. What're you trying to do, get hot enough to cook meat on your forehead?"

He shot her a glare that was much too miserable to be effective, and curled up more tightly, trying to shake her hand off and failing in the process. "Well, 's not _my_ fault! I'm not some druid who can command the elements." He paused to sniffle, and then continued in a thicker voice. "Besides, _you_ were running around in the rain, too."

_That _made her smile. She only hoped it did not come off as smug as she felt. "And yet only _one _of us is shivering in a corner."

His voice softened, then, despite the superficial grudge still within it. "...You dried yourself off?"

"Well, yes. That's what you do after taking a bath in ice-cold water." She smiled wryly despite herself; without quite knowing why, she thumbed at his feverish skin, keeping her hand pressed gently to his forehead. "We can't go anywhere while you're sick, so please, rest up here while I find us some food? I promise I'll come back - well, not that you'd like that, but I'll be back, nonetheless."

His eyes drifted shut as he sighed. "But it's still raining. I'm not hungry."

"You _will _be when you're up, and even if you aren't, you need to eat to heal."

Lear cracked one eye open; his voice was soft. "Take my cloak; even if it's not fully dry, it cuts out the wind better than yours does." He shuffled about where he lay, and let out another tired sigh. "Don't wander off too far. I'll keep an eye on things."

_Hard to believe this same person can be that tactless jerk I've wanted to kick so many times._

"Okay." Anarei found it was all she could say. She withdrew her hand just then, and shrugged out of her own cloak - it had dried faster, though she suspected it was because she'd had the foresight to hang it out near the tiny fire she'd built using the broken bits of a wooden barrel. Wordlessly, she rolled the fabric until it formed a small, soft log - then bent to lift Lear's head gently before slipping it under. "Okay."

He stiffened as she touched him, grunted impatiently, but looked almost contented as he turned his face further into the makeshift pillow.

His hair was soft; she brushed it aside briefly where her fingertips traced his forehead, felt the smile curl her lips, then straightened and got to her feet. Now that Lear had consented to rest, Anarei found she could more readily assess their situation. The cellar, albeit cold and dark, was at the very least dry. There was plenty of wood to burn; old stools, more empty barrels and broken tables. A candle-holder stood to a corner, but the candles had been almost entirely burnt away. She thought she would save them, in case they were needed otherwise.

As she'd thought, it was still pouring when she stepped out. His cloak was heavier than her own, and she found herself wincing at its weight upon her back - the cut there stung, but she hadn't had the chance to check on it. _It'd be awkward, anyway, without a mirror, and I sure as hell am not asking him to look at it for me._

First, she checked the chicken coop of their current lodgings - it was empty, save for a few feathers and some broken eggshells and a strip of flaked snakeskin. She exited hurriedly, elbowing her way through doors, painfully aware that she was breaking and entering.

_Like a thief. Look how far I've come in life._

The water dripped heavily off Lear's cloak as she stepped into the shelter of a kitchen. She threw the hood back, panting. Water trickled into her eyes from the tendrils of hair matted to her forehead; she brushed it back impatiently.

_What do we need? Food, and preferrably something to cook it in. Extra bedding if I can find some, warm things. Don't get your hopes up - the cultists might have taken it all, even if the homeowner hadn't carried it all away when he or she had left._

She was pleasantly surprised when she threw the larder doors open; there were eggs, potatoes, a small slab of cured meat, and some kind of grain in addition to jars of spices. Still, she checked herself - the eggs would likely be old, given the state of the accompanying potatoes. Some had begun to sprout, the telltale greenish tint bruising their dirt-coated skins. The egg she cracked into the washbasin was runny - far too old to be safe for consumption.

_Still, at least some of the potatoes look okay, and there's meat and grain. I can make him some broth._

Satisfied, she reached for the copper cooking pot by the burnt-out fireplace and began to fill it. There was a chipped bowl on the floor, and a ladle lay some distance away with the shattered remains of what had once been a set of dinner plates. She slipped those into the pot and heard the spice jars clatter.

In the bedroom, she found sheets and woollen blankets. A small crib rested to a corner; there was a little stuffed lion inside. She bit back the pang of regret that threatened to rise and forced herself to not imagine the child that had once lived in that room with its parents. Gathering what bedding she could in addition to her pot, she darted back towards the cellar.

Lear was asleep when she'd returned, so she began to cook. It occurred to her, as she clumsily skinned the potatoes with her dagger, that she might have thought to cover him up with their new blankets; but he was such a light sleeper, and she didn't quite fancy the idea of waking him.

Somehow, the act of cooking proved cathartic, if not a little mundane as it always did. The broth bubbled as she stirred; already, the gritty little cellar had begun to warm. She inhaled deeply, and for the first time since _that _day - the day her companion had dragged her so unceremoniously from New Tristram, Anarei allowed her mind to wander.

They hadn't spoken of their misdeeds again. It was almost as if that had become a sort of taboo; to be told once, and then forgotten, though she didn't think he'd have forgotten any more than she had. _He's killed someone, and I've killed someone._

He hadn't told her the circumstances of _his _mistake.

She glanced up at his sleeping form then, his face barely visible in the dim lighting of their residence. As much as he'd shared with her, in contrast to what little she had known of him from before, Anarei couldn't quite shake the feeling that there was still so much more that needed to be said - that needed to be cleared up. He knew her intentions, but the same could not be said of _his _intentions.

_That makes him a relative stranger, still._

That didn't sit quite right with her. For one, hadn't he said it himself? Leah - the archivist, was using _her _against him.

_If we were really just strangers, that wouldn't matter so much, now would it? Strangers don't care - or shouldn't care. And if we were just strangers to each other, what in hell's name am I doing out here, making broth for him?_

The broth bubbled some more; her train of thought broken, Anarei bent over, checked that it was cooked, then wrapped a length of fabric about the pot's wiry handle before lifting it off the fire. She set it aside before returning her gaze to her sleeping companion.

_What do I know about Lear, really? I know he's done something bad - killed. I know he's running from the consequences of that something bad. I know that Leah has an idea of what he's running from. _She checked the facts over in her head. _Facts, no speculations. I know he's a fighter of some sort, and I know he can work with mana. He doesn't eat much, and he doesn't talk much either. I know he's self-destructive, or at least unbothered about his own well-being. I know he likes his scarf._

It occurred to her then that she really only knew nine things about him. It struck her as an oddly lacking figure, particularly when she was traveling the Sanctuary with him alone. But then she found she had a tenth after all.

_I know he doesn't mean me any harm._

Lear sucked in a sharp breath, then - she mused about the possibility of his having awoken to the smell of food, but then his face tensed, and he sneezed.

He looked so much like a little boy in that moment that she was inclined to chuckle - then she realised he was awake.

"Mmph - you're back. Sorry I dozed off." He sniffled loudly, and rolled onto his stomach to push himself onto his elbows, blinked at the steaming pot with bleary eyes, and stared for a good number of seconds before he turned to her. "Everything went okay?"

She got to her feet and shook off the borrowed linens gently before making towards him, kneeling as she lowered the thick sheets over his curled-up body. "Yeah, everything's fine. I made you some broth, so you should eat it while it's hot."

He frowned at the pot of broth, then gave her a once-over with the same stern expression. "You didn't have to..." His gaze reached her eyes, and the hardness in them seemed to dissipate as he dipped his head. "...Thanks."

"Well, I'm not going to watch you starve to death." Anarei shrugged a shoulder briefly, but felt the corner of her lips crook upwards, anyway. "Bundle up. It's going to get colder when night falls."

She'd washed out the bowl previously with rainwater. It could hold a generous amount of broth; but she ladled out only a little bit. _Not like he'd finish it anyway if I give him too much, and if he _does _end up wanting extra, I can get him more instead of wasting what's leftover in his bowl._

Lear sat up hurriedly as she made towards him. "Wait, you should eat, too." He insisted while she pressed the bowl into his hands, but accepted the offered food anyway, and wrapped his hands about the bowl.

"I'll eat later. I snacked as I cooked."

He eyed her dubiously, but seemed to be convinced after a moment, and sipped at the bowl of broth - gingerly at first, though he quickly progressed to taking substantial gulps.

For one reason or another, the sight of Lear eating in earnest tugged at something deeper. Anarei swallowed, then drew her legs up against her chest, hugging them tight. One damp tendril fell into her eye; she blew it away, then refocused upon the man in front of her. "How're you feeling?"

He swallowed audibly, before offering her a small smile. "Warmer." He drained the bowl, and held it out for her. "Thank you for... well, all this. I should've come with you, too."

"You're welcome." She took the bowl, cupping his hands against its still-warm edges for a brief moment, before tugging it away gently and setting it down. "You're ill, and I'm the healer. It's only right. Do you want some more?"

He waved off her offer insistently. "No, no... you eat some, too." Lowering his head, he ran his hand through his hair, tousling it and scratching briefly at his scalp. "Sorry I'm so much trouble." He snickered, the sound thick and nasally. "I'm holding you up again, aren't I?"

"Stop apologising." She tugged her hair loose of its messy bun, then wrinkled her nose at him as she began to comb the tangled curls out with her fingers. "You're welcome, for all of it - so don't worry. Just rest up until you're ready. After all, you're calling the shots on this journey, aren't you? You lead, I follow."

_Or, you drag me along, and I try not to fall flat on my face._

The sad little smirk remained on Lear's face, though his voice had become weaker. "I can't keep you here, if you don't want to stay. You want to go home, don't you?"

_Do I?_

She didn't really know the answer. Nonetheless, she shrugged, hoping it came off sufficiently nonchalant. "That is the eventual plan, yes." She lifted her gaze then, looking him in the eyes. "It'd be really heartless for me to leave you burning up in here while it's storming, though."

He let out a heavy sigh and fell back into his temporary bed, her rolled-up cloak letting out a soft _thump_ as his head landed upon it. "I'll be fine in no time. It's nothing." Bringing up his hand, he rested the knuckles over his eyes. "See, we're heading north anyway... there are trade routes between the northern towns of Khanduras or Sharval that lead to Virkove, aren't there? With any luck, you can go home that way."

"And we'll part ways there." Her voice came out far too sombre for her own liking. Still, she couldn't help but feel just a little bit stung at the idea, like she was being discarded.

_Which is ridiculous, really. We're not even meant to be traveling together._

She heaved a long sigh. Suddenly impatient, she reached for the hand covering his face and pulled it away, nonetheless gentle, before leaning closer to at him. "Lear, why _does _that witch think she can threaten you using me, _really_?"

His face darkened instantly. Uttering an irritated grunt, he turned away from her and tugged the sheets more tightly around himself. His words came out hurried and muffled. "Don't even mention her. She could've blackmailed me without using you, really, but I'm sorry that you got dragged into it, anyway."

"That doesn't answer my question at all. You could've just run off on your own, unless..." She hesitated. Something seemed to click. "Unless she thinks she can hurt me, to get at you. Is _that _it?"

Lear growled; even without seeing his expression, she could imagine the angry frustration that would be etched upon his face. He held his silence for a long moment, before answering stiffly, "I don't want anymore blood on my hands, Anarei."

She swallowed, but the faint smile that touched her face felt oddly forced. "Didn't think you cared that much about me."

"It has nothing to _do_ with that; it just isn't right. You shouldn't have to bear the consequences of my actions." The hardness in his tone eased a little. "...But you have, anyway. I just... want to make sure you're safe."

"Then Leah could've used _anyone _to threaten you. She chose me." Inwardly, she cursed the woman. _What a bitch._

"Well... she knew that I... owe you." His voice was becoming softer, but he managed a shrug - the sheets shifted at his shoulder. "It wouldn't be the same if it's just a stranger I didn't care anything for. That's pretty straightforward."

_Just a stranger. Only, not _just _a stranger._

Anarei slumped a little over her knees, only somewhat aware that she had let out a chuckle. She was both amused, and confused - but at present, she was simply curious. "However, we don't really owe each other anything, do we? You saved my sister's life."

Lear went quiet, then. A good minute's worth of silence followed; she wondered if he'd fallen asleep again - but all things considered, she thought that was highly unlikely.

"You wouldn't've cared if she'd threatened to hurt someone else, would you?"

"I don't know." His words were lazy and his tone was nonchalant. "I told you - I didn't want anymore blood on my hands. The fact that I know you makes me want _your_ blood on my hands even less." His voice had gradually become more and more impatient and resentful, until he exhaled sharply, and grunted conclusively. "Don't ask me such things, Anarei. She makes my blood boil; you know that."

She didn't quite understand why, but she fancied herself a little short of breath, if only for the moment. It passed fairly quickly - then she found herself smiling. "Well, thank you, then. For not abandoning me to the wolves."

He lapsed into silence again. This time, he broke it himself - with a fit of sneezing.

She watched as he fumbled with his sheets, and reached to help tug them off his face; then the first sight of his expression broke her resolve - flushed and clearly agitated, Lear was evidently irritated, only too embarrassed to show it.

Helplessly, Anarei began to laugh.

_And now I know eleven things about Lear. For whatever reason, and whether or not I can understand it, he cares about me._

* * *

"It's not _funny_, Shan." Chryse tried to sound venomous; apparently, her attempt failed. Horribly. She smacked the man's shoulder sharply instead. "Stop it! Stop bloody laughing!"

It did nothing to deter him. Shan simply laughed again, louder even, and this time, threw in a snort of evident amusement. "But you're such a tough girl, what's a little ridicule to you?"

"It's not a _little_ ridicule!" She caught the sound of giggling through the noisy tavern, and pushed her voice down to a hiss as she leaned closer to the man. "Leah wouldn't let me hear the end of it until I got the hell out of her room. Honestly, you'd think she'd be _nicer_ to someone who'd agreed to help her out." Letting out a groan, she proceeded to drop her head to the tabletop, her forehead making contact with the wood audibly, making her wince aloud.

She heard him chuckle just then, the rich laughter having died down significantly. Not at all gently, he clamped his large hand down over the top of her head. "Poor, tough little miss Chryse. I guess refusing to be bullied into doing someone else's dirty work is harder than you thought, huh?"

The playful jest in his tone did not go by unnoticed. Chryse lifted her head and pouted at him, though, try as she might, she could not conjure up any form of grudge in her voice. "Don't call it 'dirty work'. _She_ is just too lazy to do what's right, too selfish to help out a tormented stranger. I'm not like her; it's on my conscience if I don't at least _try _to make the poor man feel better."

"So you'll traipse around the farm fields to find, what?" Shan scuffed her head quickly, then reached to pick up his drink. He raised his dark brows. "A sword piece? Do you even know _which _piece? Because you know, finding a sword piece in _that _place, is like looking for a needle in a haystack. Hells, you _may _even actually find a few haystacks to look in."

Chryse sipped at her tankard of dark ale as she thought his words over. _Damn it, Shan, you're making me regret this already. _"Well," she replied, with what she hoped sounded like conviction, as she set down her drink. "It's not _on_ the field, apparently. According to Little Miss Giggles, what looked like a bolt of lightning struck a certain... dungeon of theirs, only the lightning didn't actually leave a mark. She thought that was weird enough to warrant a trip to have it checked out."

Shan narrowed his eyes. "Ooh. Dungeon." The smile upon his lips retained its playful edge. "Sounds lovely. And when are you heading to this dungeon down in the fields where the great sweet corn is grown, hm?"

"Tomorrow morning." She shrugged, and took another few gulps of ale, relishing the way the cool liquid glided down her throat. "Shouldn't be a big deal, right? I mean, it's not as if we're sneaking through some secret passage way and stealing some legendary artefact to invoke some magically-entombed demon that can eat our heads; we're just going to have a look for some harmless piece of metal."

"Only." Shan lifted a finger. "How are you certain you aren't going to end up sneaking through some secret passage to steal some legendary artefact, to make some demon very angry, anyway? There are caves out there, you know, and what with the current cultist situation... well. It's dangerous."

Chryse wasn't sure whether to feel offended or touched by that. "Well... nice of you to worry about me, but I'm not defenceless, you know." She let a thin smile touch her lips. "Besides, on top of knowing my brother's whereabouts, I'll be doing a poor man a favour."

Shan arched an eyebrow. "Did I say you were defenceless?" Then he smirked - before chuckling aloud, ever good-natured. "I'm just warning you beforehand, that you might want to be careful. Not just in the fields and whichever gods-forsaken hole they send you to." He quietened, and she saw him slant his eyes - deep pools of blue - towards the usual crowd surrounding Leah's seat. "Be careful in your dealings. Not everyone is as honourable as you are."

She couldn't help but frown at his words - there was something different in his voice. _Not a joke; he's not joking about this. This is a warning, indeed. _"Okay. But I'm not doing _any_ of this for _her_. I'm doing this for my brother and for the poor strange man." She tore her eyes away from her new friend, and considered the archivist from afar. "He wasn't faking, you know? He really _was _lost and hurt and helpless - I could see it."

The young man considered her words for a brief moment, swirling the remains of his drink about his tankard. "Let's just say he's telling the truth, then, and his sword is somewhere out there. Can I suggest you not trust anybody, until you're absolutely sure of their intentions?"

"So, what you're suggesting for me to do while I'm out there..." Chryse started to swirl the remaining few mouthfuls of ale in her own tankard, a devious smile curling her lips as she peered at him. "If a huge monster jumps out of nowhere and starts chasing us, I should shove Giggles towards it and run away?"

At first, Shan looked scandalised. His eyes widened, and his brows raised - then he smiled, and before she knew it, he had begun to look impressed. "Precisely that, yes. Be sure to trip her so she doesn't get away, too."

It was Chryse's turn to be amused. Starting with reasonably modest chuckles, she was soon laughing without reserve, and it was all she could do to calm herself down enough to lift her tankard and speak up. "I can drink to that."

He clinked his tankard against hers. "Here's to outsmarting the wily, then. Cheers!"

* * *

**Authors' Notes:**

**Em: **So here we are, at the end of yet another chapter! And boy, what a chapter it has been, with golden nuggets hidden everywhere! We hope you've enjoyed our take on things so far!

**Oph: **We've also managed to grind that chapter out really fast. We'd like to thank our reviewers for giving us writing juice! **Nightbreed6**, **Tarnished Libris**, a few **Guest** reviewers, and the amazing **Heka** who review-spammed us, you guys rock!

**Em: **She really loves rocks, so having her compare you to a rock is a great thing! But let's do the important stuff now: disclaimers! We DO NOT OWN DIABLO, or anything that is a part of the game. What we DO own are our kids and the distinctly different characterisation of your favourite Blizzard NPCs.

**Oph: **We also own our plot-deviations and all our little cracks on the game mechanics. Hee hee. More of those to come. Also, if you guys think you're onto something, be sure to shoot us a review! We love conspiracy theories, oh we do.

**Em: **Oh, yes. Boy, do we love those reviews; I mean, **Heka** shot us a bunch in a row and we came up with a new chapter! We'll keep doing it because we love writing our kids, but brain-juice POWAHS US ON! So thank you for reading and thanks again for your aweshum comments! Until next time!


	14. Chapter 13: The Pursuit

**Chapter 13**

**The Pursuit**

* * *

"What in the hells, Giggles... here I was thinking you'd actually get off your royal ass and come out here with me."

It was a drizzly morning; the sky was overcast, and a uniform greyness blanketed the land, washing the dying crops a sickly shade of pale brown. After a couple of hours spent traipsing around the abandoned fields, hurling magic-shaped missiles at various humanoid monsters and rampaging rabid bulls, as she approached the lair - marked with makeshift totem poles constructed with real bones and smelling heavily of dark magic, it was hard to miss - Chryse would've expected anything.

Anything except the sight of a heavily-armoured man with a bloody fauchard strapped to his back, strings of torn bowels still hanging off the hooked blade...

And he was roasting an ear of corn over a small fire, gnawing the kernels off another cooked, slightly-burnt cob.

She frowned, wondered if it was an illusion - if it was a trap, and this man was really a demon in disguise. _But why would a demon disguise itself as a well-armed, strong man, rather than a frail and helpless villager? _

He didn't give her much time to ponder his presence. His brow furrowed, first in confusion, then he jerked his head forward roughly, calling out to her in a coarse baritone, "Out here alone, little lady?"

Chryse felt her frown deepen, felt her lips purse in the form of a pout, her voice coming out as a grudging grunt. "Evidently not, sir." She considered the possibility of this man being dangerous, demon or not, and decided to push on, forcing a firmer and more demanding tone, "That lair looks more than a little suspicious. What are you doing, roasting corn at its entrance?"

"I'm hungry." The armoured man shrugged a broad shoulder, peered at her through narrowed eyes afterwards. The rather rude, wet smack of his lips against the cob of corn irritated her somewhat; he took his time to chew and swallow - and he did it so very loudly, too, before brushing across his lips with the back of his gloved hand.

"Haven't had your breakfast this morning?" She took slow, tentative steps forward. "Or have you already been hard at work? Was it you who disposed of some of the demons in this field? There's quite a number of impressive corpses lying about."

He chuckled dryly. "Both, I suppose. But the goatmen are so daft; they're hardly worthy opponents. I came in search of the coven." He jerked his head towards the mouth of the cave, then followed with spitting a burnt kernel towards it. "I wouldn't go in there if I were you, little lady. It's not a nice sight for someone of your delicate nature."

"...You must think you know better, mister, but I may not be as _delicate_ as you think." She scoffed. The anger died down within her, however; it was something she'd heard a lot since embarking on this search for her brother. She shrugged. "Anyway... a coven, you say?"

He raised the cooking ear of corn off its pit and poked at it with one dirty finger. "Led by a witch." The stick he'd used to skewer the corn crackled quietly as he gave it a wave, causing rivulets of juice to splash upon his bloodied boots. He didn't seem to care, however, and stretched out to offer that same stick to her, his expression and voice mild. "Why do you ask?"

"No thanks." Chryse declined the corn straightaway. Leah's story about the field's sweetest-in-the-realm corn lingered in her mind; but then she remembered her manners. "Uh, pardon me; my name is Chryse, sir. I was sent by Gig- I mean, Lady Leah to check out this lair," she explained, gesturing at the construct behind the man. "I thought it was just a local hideout, but the magic it emanates... it's nothing like the raw savage wrath of corrupted beasts, or the shamanic power from the goatmen and animated trees that I've been seeing around here."

The man frowned. Bits of kernel fell to the ground as he took a bite out of the recently-offered corn. He chewed. Swallowed. "That's because the lair is a coven hideout. _Human _dark magic, little lady. Not _animals_." He offered a large hand. "Name's Kormac."

Chryse was tempted to punch the smirk off of his face; instead, she stepped up and slapped her hand into his for an obligatory shake. "Pleasure, Kormac. What business do you have with the coven?" She raised her eyes towards the entrance of the lair, and realised, now, that she could've identified that taint of human dark magic herself, had she taken those few steps earlier.

"What business do _you _have with the coven?" Kormac was evidently unimpressed as he looked her up and down. "You'll excuse me, little lady, but you don't look like you're well-equipped enough to be out here dealing with the darkness of our world."

The anger flared within her once more. Chryse looked down at her hands - encased in a pair of sturdy, but flexible gauntlets, it occurred to her that Kormac might not have considered them weapons. Where common mages bore staffs and wands to channel their power, her mistress, a rogue in her own manner, had herself prepared these gauntlets - set stones and orbs into them, imbued them with enchantments, inscribed them with runes.

_The best part is, if you're in a pinch, just punch them in the face. _Her mistress had said.

Chryse flexed her fingers, considered the spiked knuckles, and tried to summon all her patience as she replied, "I'm well-equipped enough to have survived quite some time." Every little movement in Kormac's face was grating on her. "I have no business with the coven; I just have something I need to look for in that lair. Something that a... friend had lost."

"Uh-huh." Kormac gnawed off the last few kernels before tossing the empty cob into the entrance of the cave. It bounced twice, and then disappeared into the darkness. "You've survived well enough _out here_ in these fields, but as you can see, I've already killed most of the witless animals here. As to what you've lost - you're going to have to tell me what it is."

"A sword shard. I'm not entirely sure how big it is, or what it looks like... but surely it's heavy with magic." She swallowed, tried to cool her temper by thinking about the poor stranger back at Tristram. _You're doing this for a man in need. _"If you've found something like that, please let me see it - I'll know it's _it_ if I see it."

He grunted, then hopped off the rock he'd been perched upon. Standing, he was two and a half heads taller. He was even more imposing now - not that Chryse was intimidated. He smirked again, his eyes narrowed in a way that suggested he saw her as little more threat than a goldfish. "You mean _this_, little lady?"

The piece of metal he held out was, at a glance, broken and worthless. Still, it glowed in the palm of his large hands, and as she gazed upon the scrappy shard - the tip of a rather broad sword, a fragment over a foot in length - she felt warmth wash over her core.

A fluid warmth, bright, smooth, and calm. She smiled. "This is the one. Thanks, Kormac."

"Ah, ah." He gave the shard a sharp jerk, caught the blade between his forefinger and thumb, then held it up far above her reach. That face again - that mocking, jesting, teasing face. "What do you want it for, then?"

"It belongs to my friend; I already said so!" She'd reached up as Kormac had raised the shard, and had barely stopped herself from hopping for it - he might've been amused by that, and she _really_ didn't feel much like humouring him. "I'm taking it back to Lady Leah, and she'll pass it onto its rightful owner." She huffed, her fuse shortening by the second. "_Please_. May I have it, sir?"

Kormac let out a soft snicker; evidently, he was amused either way. Still, he held up the shard, peering down at her, his eyes narrowed. "That didn't really answer my question, now, did it? What does your friend - and more importantly, what does Lady Leah want with this rotten old piece of broken metal? If it's _that _important, I might as well pass it to her and claim the reward myself."

No longer able to curb her temper, Chryse growled loudly, "My friend wants it because it _belongs _to him!" Letting out an irritated moan, she threw her hands up, then fisted them at her sides. "_Fine_; take it back to her yourself. Take whatever reward they may or may _not_ have for you. So long as it goes back to its owner, I don't care for whatever... _glory_ you seem to deem more important than the mere deed of helping a poor man out."

She spun on her heels and made to trudge back the way she came. The mud splattered as she stomped. _That was a morning well-wasted. _

Out of sight, Kormac chuckled - the sound was in no way pleasant or warm, but instead, clear with a mean-spirited jest. "Oy." He followed with several quick clicks of his tongue. "Take your treasure, then. And mind you don't cut yourself with it, little lady."

The shard fell to the ground by her feet, splattering mud onto her boot. She heard the heavy clinks of shifting armour, though Kormac said no more. Still, she turned, fully intent upon throwing a scowl in his direction - but he had already begun to walk away.

She resisted the urge to scream as she watched him. At her command, the magic in her veins rushed forth, warmed her fingertips. She raised her arms up above her head, and brought them down sharply.

With a series of sharp metallic rings, the totemic constructs surrounding the lair broke into pieces, as if sliced by invisible blades, and crumpled to the ground.

* * *

"Rude people, ugh!" Chryse grunted, tossing her wet hair over her shoulders with an irritated jerk of the head. "Can you _believe_ him?"

"Yes, I can." Shan was grinning at her beneath the shadow cast by his inordinately-large helm. At least _he_ was on her side.

Where they stood in the shabby watch tower of New Tristram's gates, the drizzling rain fell upon them still. Droplets dribbled over the rim of his helm, wetting his lashes. Still, he grinned, amused at her expense. He reached over with one long arm, grabbed a flask, then shoved it into her hand. It was filled with some sort of steaming drink, likely something he'd brought with him to start his shift. "Drink that."

Chryse tried to peer into the flask, then took a whiff instead. It smelled sour, but with a distinctive fragrance, so she proceeded to sip carefully over its rim. "Oh, mm!" The cider warmed her throat. She took a slightly greedier gulp before handing the flask back. "Thanks. That's not going to stay hot for long, though."

She looked up; the storm clouds had gathered overhead, and she could not help complaining loudly as a fat drop of rain hit her right between the eyes. "Is it _ever _sunny here?"

He laughed heartily. In the days following their first encounter, Chryse'd learnt her new friend was always eager to please, always ready to oblige. He did so now, ushering her closer beneath the small bit of shelter that formed the watch tower's crumbled roof. He took a large gulp of his drink, then stepped over, shielding her from the bitter winds that had begun to rise. "Don't be such a baby. I'm sure I'd never complain if you'd dragged me all over Lut Gholein." He handed her the flask again. "Drink."

Chryse pushed the flask back. "No, save it. I'll have to head off and have another talk with Giggles. She seemed busy when I called in on her before lunch, but said she'd meet with me again over tea." She looked out over the city gates, noticed an intact barrell amongst the wreckage of a caravan a little further off. Stretching out an un-gauntleted hand, she sought the familiar flow of energy and felt the warmth as it coursed through her arm to the tips of her fingers.

A beam of bright orange light shot forth from her palm. It reached the ground just next to the barrel, scorching grass. She shifted her hand slightly, and the barrel burst into fine splinters upon contact with the beam. "I want to pay a visit to the man they call the Fallen Star again, too. See if he's feeling any better."

Shan let out a soft whistle. "He's been in your Miss Giggles' company all day. Either he's in love or writhing in agony. If it's the former, then there's nothing to worry about. If it's the latter..." He peered back into town, narrowing his eyes a little. "Well. Then I'm sure we'd have heard the screaming by now."

Chryse laughed aloud at that. Such was another of Shan's qualities - he always knew how to lighten the mood, and always remembered not to take things too seriously. "Let's hope not. The man seems to have suffered enough as he is." She slipped her hand into her satchel, feeling the soothing warmth that the shard radiated. "If he's in the mood, maybe I can ask him to help me persuade Giggles to tell me which way Brother's headed."

"Do you think she will, though?" Shan arched a brow at her. Even in the overcast shadows, she could see the knowing doubt in his eyes. "She's not the sort to give people what they want, before _she's_ gotten everything she wants, herself. And for all you know, she's no idea where your brother's headed, either."

Chryse let out a tired sigh, swept back the tendrils of hair sticking to her neck. "Do you have a better suggestion? Besides, I'm not doing it just for her, or myself, now - the poor stranger appreciates this, too, I'm sure."

Shan shrugged a shoulder, then drained his flask. "I'm sure." He echoed, quietly and somewhat solemnly. "Either way, I guess this really _is _your best course of action right now. But Leah's never been particularly trustworthy - to me, anyway, but I suspect it's because I'm not attracted to skinny brunettes."

"Especially skinny brunettes who wear their hair perpetually over one eye, and have little dangling braids you just want to chop off?" She chuckled, and tugged her hood over her head. "I have to go and suffer that sight now, Shan. Thanks for the cider; dinner's on me tonight if you'll come?"

He stepped aside, grinned that warm way again. Made a little bow that caused the visor of his helm to flip down, though he recovered gracefully with a laugh, like he had meant to do it all along. "I'll bring the ale if you'll bring the bread. See you later."

It was in relatively high spirits that Chryse had left her friend, and proceeded to the Slaughtered Calf, where she knocked on the door of Leah's room.

Her spirits fell right back into the pit when she saw the woman's _other_ guest.

"Why... fancy this, Kormac." She scowled.

Relieved of his armour, the man still towered over her. She saw now that his hair was a dark and dirty blond, roughly swept back and left to fall past his ears. He chuckled, a sound to a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Indeed, little lady." He used the words deliberately. "Here to tell on me?"

"There isn't anything to tell on." Chryse snarled as she pushed past him, digging into her satchel. She pressed the sword shard onto the table in front of Leah. "Here; Kormac found it. Give him his just rewards if you're so inclined, but at _least_ tell me which way I should go to find my brother."

Leah spared the shard but a passing glance, and peered up at her from beneath those blinding bangs. "No need for such haste, Miss Chryse. Have a seat." She nodded at a vacant chair by the table. "Kormac and I have already exchanged stories; I thought it would do _you _some good if you two exchange some, too."

Kormac had taken a seat. Leaned back, too, stretching out his long, thick legs as if he were the man of the house, here to rest after a day's hard work. He narrowed his eyes, completely ignoring the archivist as he studied Chryse. "So much for helping a friend out, eh? Seems you're working to gain something besides goodwill. Rather unfair you're lecturing me then, isn't it?"

Chryse knew her voice to be venomously as she crossed her arms where she stood. "When did I lecture you? I'm not _that_ pure; why, did you _think _I was? I want to help this man, I really do... but I have my_ own_ business to tend to - I have _family _to find."

"Miss Chryse, Mister Kormac." The archivist straightened in her seat, and calmly filled two teacups before her. "I didn't invite you two here to fight; I owe you _both_ for this favour." She set down the teapot, and pushed the cups towards Kormac and the seat intended for Chryse. "Mister Kormac, I've agreed to aid you with seeking out the relics of your order. So in exchange, please give Miss Chryse what she wants." She fixed her single visible eye upon Chryse, then. "Tell her what you know about her brother."

He snorted then, though he didn't seem inclined to accept of the archivist's tea, neither. He jerked his head towards the offered chair roughly, his voice impatient. "Well sit down, then. I'm sure as hell not going to crane my neck to talk up to you."

Chryse bit back a retort and sat down grumpily, almost falling into the seat. She swallowed, and managed to secure a mild enough tone. "...You know about my brother?"

"Well, he was pretty much tearing up the rumour mill, so yes." Kormac's lip curled - in the manner she hated so very much. "Lear, was it? I heard the girl call him that, but we didn't cross paths beyond that one time, in Leoric's crypts. Looked like he was going to shit himself in panic when he woke up."

"Woke up? From what?" The anxiety arose - but as it so often did, the emotion manifested itself in the form of anger in her voice. "Why was he panicking?"

"He'd just passed out from killing the remains of Leoric. To be fair, anyone would've panicked." Kormac remarked, dryly. His apathy for the subject could not have been clearer. "Anyway, he wasn't too much hurt, neither him nor the girl. He dragged her away after, and as far as I know, patched themselves up after they'd retrieved your friend. Lady Leah here insists he's the Fallen Star."

Evidently Kormac shared her own disbelief about the stranger's tales - but no matter, he was still a man in need. Chryse pressed on, "Who's this 'girl'? Lady Leah, you've said something about a 'girlfriend', too." She realised then she'd have little luck coaxing information from the archivist; so she turned to the lesser of the two evils before her. "Who is she? How'd she end up travelling with him?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to ask Lady Leah for _that _information." Kormac grunted. "That was the first I saw of them, and the last. 'Narei, he said. Not quite sure that's her proper name, but that should give you an idea."

"She's a healer." Leah responded before Chryse could speak again. "I'm sure you've heard about the bloodbath in the laundry, Mister Kormac?"

Kormac shifted his attention to Leah, now - Chryse fancied she saw a shred of interest in his face, though it did little to soothe her. If anything, it seemed to radiate a dark and twisted amusement. "So _that's_ them. The infamous bloodbath. I thought the healers left, though."

Chryse frowned deeply. Her voice grew desperate. "Bloodbath? Was someone killed? What does it have to do with Brother?"

She wondered if that was a hint of pity in Leah's expression, or if it was her version of the same amusement exhibited by Kormac. "The healers left, yes; the man left with the young miss, but the older girl... Anarei, _she_ left with _him_ - your brother, Miss Chryse." The archivist grinned, good-naturedly at first glance, creepily at the second, then turned to face the man. "Tell her what you've heard of the bloodbath. I'm interested to hear how the rumours have progressed."

"Only that he didn't stop bleeding until about six sets of sheets had been sent back." Chryse's blood grew cold at that. Kormac, however, only leaned back again; the joints in his back cracked. He jerked his head one side, quickly, and then the other, the pops joining in the quiet chorus. "They saved his life and went on their way, but then he decided to stay -" He paused, slanting his eyes towards Leah, "- for one reason or another, to help the town out. I imagine that's how he and the girl got into the crypts."

Leah laughed - a ringing giggle that Chryse was getting used to, despite her inability to really tolerate it. "They're saying_ six _sets, now? I only counted four that morning."

Chryse tried to gather her thoughts. Her brother was safe, that was the conclusion, at least. Safe and well enough to get around and help out, whatever that entailed.

Suddenly, she became aware of the meaning behind Kormac's brief sidelong glance at the archivist - if Chryse herself was being sent to run Leah's errands, it wouldn't surprise her if her brother and Anarei - whoever she was - were asked to do the same.

"Where is he _now_, Lady Leah?"

"You haven't earned that information. You didn't even do the dirty work retrieving _this _shard of the sword, did you?" Her grin became malicious. "I'll tell you about _that_ if you'll agree to look for another shard. How about it?"

"We'll even tell you where to go." Kormac added. In contrast to the archivist, he looked almost bored. "Though, for all you call that fellow your brother, I'm failing to see where your blood bond lies. Seems an awful lot of trouble to go to, really."

"He's _my brother_ and I would go through _any_ amount of trouble to drag him home alive and kicking, that's all." Chryse bit back, more harshly than she'd expected. "Fine; tell me where to go, what to do. There doesn't seem to be any room for compromise here, anyway."

Leah looked remarkably satisfied by that, and took a deep drink from her cup. "Well, that makes things painless." She set her tea down, and helped herself to a butter cookie. "Kormac, what did the witch Maghda tell you?"

"It has fallen where only the ancients may tread." Kormac recited. He straightened just then, jabbing his elbows onto the table. "We believe she means the drowned temple, just northwards of the corn fields. It's likely you'll have to find a way to appease the temple's guardians to get in, so voice out now if you think you'll need help." There was a bare, sneer-like smile on his face that betrayed a more sinister cast beneath.

Chryse pursed her lips, weighed her options, allowed her stubbornness to win over the rationality telling her to swallow her pride, and pushed herself to her feet. "Alright then, Lady Leah. I'll let you know as soon as I've made progress."

She inclined her head stiffly, and stormed out of the room, ignoring Kormac's echoing laugh.

* * *

Chryse couldn't _believe_ her luck.

"_Why_ is it that I _always _run into _vulgar_, _contemptible _men around this part of Sanctuary?" The words spilled out in anguish. She picked herself off the muddy ground, wincing as she disentangled her clothes and hair from the wild bushes.

The middle-aged man who'd tumbled down with her only groaned in response. Between his rather sudden appearance and that of his pursuers, she'd hardly had a chance to look him over - besides, he'd run headlong _into _her, and that had sent them crashing into a thicket of thorny bushes.

Luckily, his pursuers were rather short-sighted. Either that or they held very little attention for details. It was also very likely they wanted to get out of the rain - grumbling and muttering threats, the pack passed on, and soon dissolved into the scenery.

"Ngh."

"What in all the levels of hell-" Chryse grumbled as she half-staggered, half-tumbled out of the bushes and back onto the cleared path. The tiny cuts all over her exposed skin had started to sting and itch. "What were you _doing_?"

The man rolled over in a mass of leather-coat and muck. Hunched in the cramped space afforded by the bushes surrounding him, she saw he was lean. His dark hair was messy - it suited his face, which bore a tinge of roguish sheepishness even as he looked her way. "Ah, sorry about that, miss." He stopped, then, having finished blinking the mud from his eyes, did a double take and grinned. "Ahem. I take that back. It is my pleasure, a true pleasure indeed, to have tumbled in the grass with a lady as fine as yourself."

"Well, don't say it like _that_!" Chryse wasn't sure whether to be angry or amused. "Who are you? What do you want? Why were people chasing you?"

"Oh, pardon me." The man brought a hand up to wipe the dirt from his face as he climbed out of the thicket. She saw then that he wasn't as tall as Kormac, and noted the crossbow strapped to his back - or at least its thickly-carved, muddy handle. "I'm Lyndon. Those people are bad people, and the only thing I want, miss, is a name from you so I may praise it."

Covered head to toe in mud, he waggled his eyebrows at her. She quirked her own in response. "I'm Chryse. And you're interrupting my journey, so save the praises, please." She turned around, found her bearings, and continued down the narrow path.

"Wait. Hey!" The squelching sound of booted feet upon mud reached her long before he'd caught up. "Wait up. Where're you headed?"

"To some waterlogged temple ruins. Why -" She jerked around sharply, and almost yelped in surprise at how close he was. "- are you _following_ me? I don't want to get into your trouble."

Lyndon blinked once, recoiling even as she yelped. "...Oh, I'm sorry. I just thought an introduction would include something... more. You know, more than a fleeting farewell." He smiled then, broadly, happily - a little_ too_ happily, given her circumstances - but something flashed in his eyes, a deeper sentiment she couldn't decipher. "Why're you heading that way? It's not safe, you know. The deserted grounds by the temple are full of unsightly things that will try and kill you."

"By the looks of things, _everything_ around here's out to kill me, and _everyone_ thinks I can't handle it." She growled irritably, found that she didn't quite care if she made this man hate her. "What'd _you_ do about that, anyway? You were running from people. You're not about to suddenly summon up some chivalry and _escort _me through those grounds, now, are you?"

"I thought you'd _never _ask." Neatly-aligned incisors flashed as he grinned at her again. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Chryse."

She eyed the handle of his crossbow. "How'd I know you won't shoot me in the back of the head as soon as I turn around and proceed to loot my corpse?"

He laughed - it appeared genuine, at the very least. "You're _far _too pretty to kill."

"You could still shoot me in the back, paralyse me and do unspeakable things to me."

That seemed to catch him off guard, but only for a moment. He thought briefly, then raised his brows. "Would you like that?"

"Of _course _not!" Chryse cried out incredulously, considered saying more, then let out a loud grunt and kept walking. _Another strange man. Do they ever stop coming? _She thought of Shan; and wished he were with her at that very moment.

But it was Lyndon who followed. He matched her steps evenly, peering down at her as they walked. "You're not very good at this, are you?" His tone was mild, but softened, as if he were suddenly aware of her current mood.

"At _what_?" She picked up the pace; Lyndon's steps caught up without trouble. "Are you just going to do the boring thing and say that a girl like me shouldn't be out here?"

"No. On the contrary..." He stepped right up to her, blocking her path. His hands, slender, calloused, came to perch upon his waist. "I'm going to do the rather more interesting thing - I'm going to tell you why I'm following you." His eyes gleamed good-naturedly. "Come on. A thief never tells the truth, and I'm offering it now. Will you let me come with you? At least until you're done here?"

"So a thief is what you are, Lyndon." Chryse arched her dark brows quizzically. While she didn't sense danger from _this _man as she had from Kormac, there was a certain flippantness about him. "How'd I know you're telling the truth right _now_? That you're actually offering me _truth_?"

He smiled again - here was a man well aware of his handsome face, and the effect it might have upon women young or old. "Well, you're just going to have to take my word for it. I could've shot those men down, though, when we were hidden in the bushes - but I didn't. Does that help you believe that I mean you no harm?"

"That doesn't help anything." Chryse tried for sounding grudging, though she could hear the way her voice softened. She clicked her tongue in annoyance, and tossed her hair a bit as she shoved past him. "Do what you want, Lyndon. But know this - if anything happens, I'm taking you down with me."

"Don't worry. If those bastards come back for me, I'll be sure to distract them with you so I can get away first. You can take me down afterwards."

She didn't even know what to say to that.

And so they trudged on in silence, through mud that was increasingly saturated, until the ruins came into sight.

They were not really ruins at all, Chryse noted. While they were abandoned and somewhat overgrown by creeping plants, with fine grasses sprouting out from between the stones, the temple was largely intact.

"Are you nephalem?"

The voice was mild as a whisper, yet loud as a roar, and she spun to face the source of the disembodied voice - a spirit. _Surely it's a spirit. _

Lyndon's voice was equally mild. "I've been trying to get in there for _weeks _now - the barrier's always just closed." He lowered his voice, almost hissing into her ear. "This is the first time that thing's shown up. Must be my lucky day."

Chryse threw the thief a scathing look, and turned to the spirit - not a malevolent one, she realised. Not a wraith, nor was it a mere ghost. She couldn't make out a face, but the outline of plated armour could be seen. The translucent figure radiated gentle, but steadfast strength - a steadily-burning blue flame. "You're guarding the temple?"

The spirit drifted closer, and she saw its eyes amidst the ethereal smoke. A dull greyish-blue, but warm nonetheless; they gazed upon her, ignored the thief by her side. "I am Alaric. This is the sacred place of my people. Only a nephalem may enter."

Chryse scratched her head, pricked her finger with a thorn that had gotten caught in her hair, and tossed it away impatiently. She checked her tone before replying to the spirit - surely it deserved her respect. "But the nephalem... are just the first human beings, right? By that logic, doesn't that mean _all_ of us are somehow descended from nephalem?"

Alaric seemed to smile - the shadow of it lingered by the smoke that formed his wispy lips, and then he spoke again. "Clever. But let me ask this of you then. With all of humanity equal, and the power of each individual sourced from their ancestors, why is it that some flee in the face of darkness, while others prevail?"

She thought for a moment, made sure she understood the question properly. Then she simply shrugged. "Same reason why we can choose to either fight or flight; some run away from their problems while others face them head-on, I suppose. It's a matter of character rather than heritage, I'd think."

"Is it merely that, or does character _define _heritage?" The spirit's voice echoed; it was mournful and solemn, made even more so by the faint, incessant gushing of a nearby water source. "What is it you seek, child?"

"A way to find my brother."

"Your brother is not in my keeping. I ask you again - what is it you seek?"

Chryse blinked in surprise at the unexpectedly pragmatic response, then pouted; she wasn't sure if giving the right answer would make things any easier for her. She inhaled, held the breath, and let it out before responding, "A shard of a broken sword, heavy with... I wouldn't call it white magic, but it's... it's not _dark_ magic." She tried to dig deep, recall the feeling that the other shard had inspired within her. "It channels a controlled sort of power. A... _righteous_ kind of magic."

Alaric's limb drifted lazily as he moved to gesture with his hand. "And you wish to search the sacred halls of my people to find it." It was not a question.

"Yes," she replied, a little too eagerly, but lowered her voice before she went on. "If you'll allow it, Alaric. You know my brother is not in your keeping; do you mayhaps know if the shard _is_?"

"Seek two orbs of power in the woods beyond." Alaric's spirit wavered. "They wait in crypts - the tombs of my brothers. Bring them back here, and see for yourself."

Chryse found herself furrowing her brows at the vague answer, but dipped her head reverently nevertheless. "Thank you. Please wait for me; I'll be back shortly." Scowling as she turned to her recently-acquired companion, she waved a hand briskly. "Come on, Lyndon - and mind that you don't anger the spirits on the way."

* * *

"Will you come with me?"

Shan raised a brow at her, confused and surprised. The hand by his side tapped the hilt of his sword - he smiled wryly at her. "I'm here, aren't I? It's not as if I've suddenly decided to take a three-day ferry ride for some air. I could've taken a walk for that. Wortham's pretty far away, you know."

Chryse chuckled, and shook her head gently. She'd made up her mind about her next course of action, after all, and it made her feel better - like she was once again in control. "No, I mean... will you come along with me after this? Travel north with me, at least for a bit?"

"Ah." He didn't look surprised; on the contrary, he looked almost disappointed. Guilty. "You know I can't."

Chryse expected as much, and offered an empathetic smile. "You have a life here."

"I do. And I really like it, too." Shan's voice was apologetic, though she noted he smiled, still. It was a gentle little thing, barely crooking his lip. But he looked her in the eyes. "I'm sorry, though - so very sorry."

Her smile turned into a playful smirk. "No need to be. It was a bold question on my part." She turned towards the bow of the ship, saw a stream of smoke rising on the horizon, and decided think on that later. "Either way, once this is over, it'll be goodbye for us, huh?"

Shan shrugged a shoulder. "Hey, it's not like we're saying goodbye forever and ever." Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw he'd turned his head to face her again. "What are the odds you'd want to live here in Tristram after you find your idiot brother?"

Chryse snorted. "Not for as long as Giggles is around." She glanced towards the corner of the ferry's cabin where her belongings were packed away in a sturdy backpack and a satchel, and felt a renewed sense of hope. "I don't know how far north I'll have to go; it may be a while before I can find him and drag him home, but at least I'm _actually _making progress now." She turned to Shan, now feeling a little sad. "You were right, I think... it's not worth it, trying to rely on Leah. I trudged through those crypts, barely avoided having the artefacts stolen by that thief, waded through that temple, risked getting killed by guardian spirits, found another piece of the sword, and all I got was a few damn clues." She held up a hand to count off on her fingers. "The girl's a northerner; Brother has a soft spot for her, and apparently he'd hate to see her hurt."

"Honestly, Lyndon seems like a much better man than that templar." Shan pursed his lips. For someone usually openly cheerful, he wore his serious face at present. "Kormac gives off the impression that he _thinks _he knows better. I'd have hated to see you get into it with him." He leaned forward then, folding his arms over the railings of the ferry, gazing into the murky water beneath. "Guess both you and your brother found someone to care about on this journey, eh?"

"I suppose." Chryse followed suit, leaning upon the railings, feeling the mist carried by the wind. "I don't mind Lyndon as a _person_, but he's... handsy." She made a face. "In more ways than one. Still, he's more pleasant than Kormac." She sidled up closer to Shan, beaming. "You're the pleasantest, though, out of everyone I'd met in Tristram."

He returned her smile; and she saw his teeth, and the dimples that dipped into his cheeks as he gazed at her. It was so very boyish, that smile. "Go on, I like compliments."

"We-ell." She craned her neck up, pausing for effect. "You're a good listener - you listen to me complain all the time, but you're always pleasant about it. You have a way of making things seem not as bad as they are." Her smile widened as she went on, "You don't fall for superficial things, I guess? For one, you're not falling in line with the rest of the lads to bumble around Giggles every night."

"That's because we've established I don't like skinny brunettes." Shan grinned.

"I'm a brunette." Chryse muttered as she ran her fingers through her thick waves.

He chuckled at her just then. "Yes, but you're not Best-Beloved Miss Giggles."

She couldn't help but burst into a laugh. "So you just don't like _her_, then." Snickering, she drew closer towards him. "Well, you're funny, too, and made my stay in Tristram actually _bearable_. Last but not least, you've agreed to come on this trip, and you're even willing to take the arrow for me and pass the sword fragment to Giggles if I find it. So..." Briskly, modestly, she pecked a kiss upon his cheek. "...For everything, Shan, thank you."

If Shan was surprised, he didn't show it much. One hand moved to rub at his recently-kissed cheek, then he turned that warm smile upon her again. "Hey, no need to thank me. I'm just a farmhand in a time of war. You've been a pleasurable encounter too, Chryse."

"I'm just a sheltered little girl out to kick her brother's sorry ass." She snickered, before turning towards the bow once more. The village of Wortham was coming into view now - blazes, smoke, and the smell of dark magic. "Let's go get geared up, then. We'll have a proper farewell once this is over."

* * *

By all accounts, It was a pleasant late-morning. The rain had eased up shortly after dawn, the wind that blew in from the east was devoid of moisture, and once in a while, the sun would peek out from sparse holes in the thick blanket of clouds.

In her uncle's house, Leah leaned back in her favourite chair. It was an old thing, sturdily-built and elegantly-carved, an antique from Ureh - they had helped a household solve an issue concerning vengeful spirits with their knowledge. In return, the family had given them their most prized possession, after she and her uncle refused monetary payment.

She looked towards her uncle Deckard - buried in books, as usual; though rather than being seated at his desk, he was at the dining table. The stranger sat across from him, and between them lay an open scroll filled to the edges with scripts and runes.

It was quiet for once, and she was grateful for it. As much as she enjoyed the prospect of adventure and the occasional chaotic chase, even she had to admit it was getting too much as of late.

_Just like old times._

Simpler times and times of innocence, before the damned senility had taken her uncle. For a moment or two, Leah scowled, irritated at the twist of fate - but reminded herself that it was not her uncle's fault.

Still, the thought made her angry.

A gentle thud of fist-upon-door arose. From his chair, her uncle made a long, strangled sound of startlement, as he so often did nowadays when disturbed. The stranger looked equally perplexed, though he did little to acknowledge the knock beyond lifting his gaze.

"Excuse me, would this be the home of Deckard Cain?"

Leah marked her page in the tome with a woven bookmark, got to her feet and opened the door a crack. She was met with the sight of an elegant-looking middle-aged woman, dressed in a travelling cloak. Behind her was a small group of people. "This is my uncle's house, yes. And who might you be?"

The woman smiled, her thin, petite lips curling warmly. Her voice was smooth, like honey. Bright, eager eyes peered through the relative dimness of the hall. "We're scholars of the heavenly maps from the great library of Caldeum. We'd recently heard news of a Fallen Star in the area, and have travelled far to learn more of it. Would your uncle happen to be home, miss? We'd so love the opportunity to speak with him."

"Visitors, Leah, my dear girl?" Her uncle's trembling voice betrayed his excitement. Leah heard the scratch of his chair's legs against the floor, and the sporadic _tap-tap _of his walking stick as he plodded over. "Let them in! Knowledge is something that must be shared."

Leah opened the door wider, and the group filed in smoothly, inclining their heads in thanks as they made their way past her.

"Put the kettle on, Leah." Her uncle was already going back the short way he came, and starting to clear some tomes and parchments off of the table. The stranger looked up somewhat warily, but made no comment as the old man prattled on. "What a pleasant surprise! To have guests all the way from Caldeum... which school are you from again?"

Something didn't feel quite right to her, and instincts told her to run for the door. But that, she saw, was blocked by two of the largest in the group.

Then, the woman spoke, drawing her brocade hood back to reveal the mass of dark ringlets piled high upon her head. Her small, pointed chin lifted - she smiled, a twisted expression that spoke of a triumph. "The School of Truth. My Lord Belial's truth, anyway."

The stranger reacted the same time Leah did, but she found herself immediately halted as black tendrils, cold as ice, snapped tight around her torsos and limbs; likewise, the stranger struggled. "Uncle! It's -"

Her words died into a scream. Her uncle crumpled to the floor, moaning and crying out feebly as three of the cultists - _cultists_, she recognised them now - had him snared.

She looked at the woman; she could see her for who she really was, now - dressed in an ornate, otherworldly gown and adorned with a rich headdress, her skin was deathly pallid. Her eyes gleamed sharply, and two giant butterflies upon her shoulders kept her hovering above the floor - above her uncle. _Maghda._

"Tsk, tsk." The witch clicked her tongue against her teeth, shaking her head. She drifted closer, cold fingertips reaching to brush Leah's jawline, caressing the skin and moving down to her throat, where one sharp fingernail barely nudged deeper. "Such bad manners, girl. Then again, I wouldn't've expected any more - your mother was a bitch, too."

"What do you _want_, Maghda?" Leah shouted, demanded, tried to drown out the sound of her uncle's pained cries with her own voice. "Leave my uncle alone!"

The witch let out a laugh; the fingernail flicked once, drew the merest droplet of blood. She turned her head from the archivist, towards the old man. "I'm not after the old man's life. What I want are the sword-pieces. You have them here - I can feel it, just as I felt the piece in Wortham."

_Wortham?_ Leah's mind raced. _The girl didn't get to it in time, then? But she should've been there and back by now... _

Maghda must've read her mind. One side of her lip curled. "Your little golden girl is gone. Fought my master's forces, found no relic, and left. The shards? They're _mine_."

Leah panicked, her breaths came in pants. Her mind was turning blank amidst the sounds of Maghda's snickers, the cultists' chants, and the cries of her uncle and the stranger.

About to erupt from uncontainable fear and inexplicable rage, Leah screamed.

The sound of the door crashing down broke through the chaotic cacophony in the room, and at once, her bonds loosened. She raised her head, tried to look up, but was blinded by a splatter of blood that came across her eyes, and deafened by the dying shriek of the cultist before her.

"Sorry about your door, ma'am." It was a suave and playful voice that spoke from right beside her ear. The owner of the voice went on to say something, but his words were drowned out by Maghda's yelp of pain.

"Mind that you don't make too big of a mess, partner." The voice was audible again, as the cultists were silenced, one by one.

Leah wiped the blood from her eyes and took in the sight - the bloody remains of cultists strewn over the floor, the walls and furniture painted with splatters of crimson as a bardiche sliced through flesh like a hot knife through butter. The face of the weapon's wielder was hidden from her view, but it was clear that he was a man - tall, broad, and clad in a great brown coat.

"We really _are_ terribly sorry about the damage."

She turned towards the voice, caught the glint of his short sword before it was plunged into the gut of a cultist. The smaller man grinned, and jerked a lever on the hilt of the sword. The cultist let out a blood-curdling scream, and then another as the man twisted the hilt, before jerking it out roughly, the blade now sprung apart into three prongs with gore entangling each one. "Can't be helped." He remarked casually with an idle flick of his weapon.

Maghda herself was huddled against the wall; one of her giant butterflies lay in pieces before her and half her gown was dyed red by the blood gushing from a gash on her chest. She clutched the stranger - he, too, was heaving and panting with effort. "You will _pay _for this, wench." The rasped threat, though faint, did little to hide the venom contained within.

Leah blinked - then Maghda was gone, gone in a wisp of smoke, and the stranger with her.

Quiet, once more.

Leah almost relaxed, before she remembered. "Uncle Deckard!"

She flew at him, her hands scrabbling for his frail form, lying inert amongst the tomes and parchments that had fallen from the overturned table.

She knew, before she felt for breath from his nostrils, before she dug her fingers into the side of his neck, that she would find no sign of life from the only parent she had ever known.

Footsteps approached. "Sorry, ma'am. We heard screaming, but we didn't make it in time, it seems."

Leah shook her head. She found no words, not even tears for this moment.

_Uncle Deckard's dead. Maghda killed him. The girl didn't make it in time; Maghda found the sword shard first, and now she's gone. The girl's gone. The stranger's gone. Uncle Deckard... they're _all_ gone. _

She looked up at her two rescuers - but long before her eyes reached their faces, she saw their coats.

Matching deep brown coats, fitted so well they must have been tailored, and hemmed with silver-grey. Save for the colour, they looked all too familiar.

_Viz-Jaq'taar. _

Her anger suddenly flared; the contempt and disgust rose, at the incompetence of those she'd sent to run her errands. The hound. The healer. The mage.

_They will all _pay_. _

"You're after the hound, aren't you?" Slowly, Leah pushed herself to her feet, fisted her hands as the rage within her boiled and bubbled. "Lear... that's his name, isn't it?"

The smaller man sounded surprised. "Well, yes."

"He's headed north." Her voice came out an enraged growl. "To the girl's homeland - her name's Anarei, she's a healer - likely an apprentice, at her age. She can't be more than eighteen." The words tumbled forth, unbridled - but she had no desire to suppress them at all. She imagined the torment this would cause the ones who'd ruined her plans, and felt only a surge of thrill. "The northerner... she saved his life. He had internal injuries and she nursed him back to reasonable health over the course of a month. He has a soft spot for her." A sinister smile curved her lips. "They left less than three weeks ago. I'll bet anything if you get a hold of _her_, you'll have _that_ much less trouble getting _him_ to comply. Hells, slit her throat if you want, or use that fancy blade of yours to gut her. Bleed her out and make him watch - I guarantee you'll have a show then."

The man looked somewhat confused. He blinked, his brown eyes wide, before he turned to his companion.

The taller of the two gave his partner a quick glance, and the smaller man spoke for them once more, now wearing a wary little smile. "This is too easy. You realise you're making this too easy, right?"

"No." She chuckled darkly, now fully aware - fully aware of the implications, of the fate she now doomed the hound and his girlfriend to. "This is going to be anything _but _easy - for him, anyway." She scowled as she recalled all of their faces. "Take note, assassins; she's a common-looking pretty girl, but you should be able to spot her if you look hard enough - hazel eyes, more green than brown, trusting as a doe's. Rich brown hair, thickly-coiled into ringlets reaching her upper back. Rosy complexion, high cheekbones, a straight but dainty nose, small mouth with full lips. About an inch taller than me - not fat, but more sturdily-built." She grimaced - she felt both exhilarated and nauseated. _Though perhaps the latter is the result of the former?_ "Remember... her name is Anarei. And if your target is the hound, she is the one currently holding the leash."

_Commence the hunt, hound, and we'll see who comes home with the prize. _

* * *

**Authors' Notes: **

**Oph: **Yay for the chapter! Our longest chapter yet, but we really wanted to get to this point! Tedious canon quests are over for now, whoo-hoo!

**Em: **We really like writing our own plotlines, and we really like sharing them with you guys! After all, and we've stressed this before - who wants to re-read the game all over again, eh? I hope you've enjoyed our little bits and pieces of canon-deviation. We certainly did.

**Oph: **Some other good news - I got the game just over a week ago! While I'm getting a greater understanding of the game-universe, especially in terms of settings, I'm also having even more fun writing _away_ from canon. We'll say it again: we shall endeavour to _not_ retell the game!

**Em: **That's not to say we're not gonna pay due homage to Blizzard, however. Speaking of which - we do NOT own Diablo III, or Leah, or Tyrael, or anyone else mentioned that belongs to Blizzard. We do, however, call Leah and Kormac's bastardry, as well as Lyndon's smartass remarks.

**Oph:** Thanks go out to all you reviewers and followers, especially **Nightbreed6**, for following our chapters so closely and never failing to review. We hope you've all enjoyed this chapter, and we promise that Lear and Anarei will be back in the next one. Merry Christmas, and we'll see you again in the new year!


	15. Chapter 14: Sighted

**Chapter 14**

**Sighted**

* * *

It was a warm night; the wind was light and the smell of rain was faint - winter was over.

They'd opted to sleep out in the open that night, making camp at some ruins. A weathered stone wall provided sufficient windbreak from the occasional draught, and fine grasses growing from between the cracks in the old stone-tiled floor were dense enough to serve as soft bedding over the flat surface.

"The stars are out." Lear remarked as the clouds drifted and a patch of the night sky was revealed. He considered the idea that his Lord and Lady may be looking at the same sky - that Lady Chryse may be looking at it, wondering where he was, beneath the heavy blanket of night.

Anarei lay on her back, just a few paces from him. Her hands were clasped over her abdomen; like him, she was gazing upwards into the heavens. "They are."

"Do you know much about the constellations?" He turned to face her, and noted the little smile upon her lips. "I kind of wish I do, sometimes... it's good storytelling knowledge."

She seemed content to be silent for a while; they'd been plenty quiet before, after all. But then she turned her head, her cheek pressing gently into the rolled-up cloak she now used as a makeshift pillow. That little playful smile lingered. "Are you going to tell me a bedtime story, then?"

"You've got the birthday gift you requested; we had a day of... truce."

He had found her brooding over the embers of their fire in the morning, looking rather more glum than usual. Upon his somewhat reluctant enquiry, she'd revealed to him, equally reluctantly, that she was turning seventeen years old that day.

Birthdays - commemorations of a person's introduction to the world, one's first encounter with loved ones, and celebrations of life and love.

_When was the last time you celebrated your birthday with your Lord and Lady and ward - those you call family? When was the last time you paid homage to your birth parents, who sacrificed so much for the peace you enjoyed - could still be enjoying, had you not found yourself with those who walk in the shadows? _

Bedtime story, she had said. Lear lamented; if not for him, Anarei would be with _her_ family, and _they_ could share stories, reminisce, relive fond memories.

Lear turned his eyes skyward again, then closed them as he tucked one arm under his head. "You're too old for bedtime stories by now, aren't you?"

Outside his line of physical sight, she chuckled quietly. "Mam and da never told us bedtime stories. We read well enough ourselves, so there was no need." There was a soft rustle of fabric, accompanied by a quiet, but comfortable grunt. She hesitated. Then, very quietly, murmured, "Thanks. For the gift."

He sighed, savouring the comfort of the night, the relative comfort between him and his companion. "It's nothing, really. I have nothing else to give you."

_Lady Chryse's turning seventeen soon, too - in less than two months; and this year, I can't even send her a letter to wish her a happy birthday._

"Hey, I didn't get angry at all today. That's probably about the best gift I've ever received." He didn't know if she was joking or not. "Given our circumstances, of course."

_The circumstances that _you_ put her in. You dragged her out here, when she could've gone on her way to join with her siblings, or returned home. You dragged her out here, after you dragged her into your troubles. _

"...Sorry." He opened his eyes and turned to her once more. "I'm sorry. You should be with your family, on such a day."

He saw now that she was turned from him, her eyes shut. "I don't really care. It's not like we've got time for that, anyway. Strahan and Izzy are in Lut Gholein. Da's too busy with everything that's started to happen." She quietened. "I'm sure you've heard. Things are stirring up in the north. Demonspawn."

_At Arreat Crater. Of course I've heard. _"You'll be home soon."

"It's not me I'm worried about."

_Of course. You should've seen _that_ coming. _"I can take care of myself now... my insides are fine, you don't have to worry."

Anarei laughed just then, a soft, sad little sound that he fancied was tinged with a trace of bitterness. "I'm sure you can take care of yourself. It's whether or not you _will_."

_You want to set things straight - stop this vicious cycle, put an end to this. You're not part of the equation here; at this point, all you can do is do it for _her. _Keep her out of trouble. Get her out of _your_ troubles. Bring her home. Keep her safe. _

_You don't need any more innocent blood on your hands. _

He rolled onto his side, turning away from her. "Happy birthday, Anarei. Sleep well."

"Okay." She sounded just a little bit hurt. Somewhat tired, and evidently defeated. The many days they'd spent walking had not all been cordial - and somewhere along the way, she'd stopped arguing back. "Thank you. You sleep well too."

A snide chuckle formed in his mind. _You want to protect her, yet you managed to hurt her, anyway._

* * *

Cold. Not harsh, nor biting, but the sort that nipped gently at the skin.

Anarei felt the flush of warmth from her cheeks and drew her cloak closer about herself. Rain water dripped from sodden leaves, and the dirt clung to her stained boots. It'd rained all day.

Beneath the canopy of trees that formed shade for their current path, it was difficult to ascertain what time of day it really was - but then, she mused, watching a winged insect of sorts descend nearer to the earth - it was likely close to twilight.

_Just another cold and lonely day with a cold and lonely companion._

After her requested day of truce, the hostility between Lear and herself had slowly but surely climbed again. The conversations returned to mere passing exchanges when they were deciding on which course to pursue, or inconsequential small talk when the silence became too stifling. Usually, she broke those silences.

Anarei hated admitting it, but she was running out of excuses to speak. Even moreso, when it had become painfully obvious that he had nothing to say.

It had been just as bad that day. They'd barely spoken, and she was beginning to wonder if she really wouldn't have been better off traveling on her own, after all.

_And it's really not as if I need an escort to get home. I've done it before, and I didn't even ask for him to be here._

She slanted her gaze aside, caught a glimpse of his shoulder; and for the moment, wondered if he would give chase if she were to run, there and then.

_Maybe not._

For the fourth time that day, Anarei swallowed back the wretched lump in her throat, and tasting defeat, grunted.

_Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I'll refrain from talking to him._

She knew she'd fail again tomorrow, even as she muttered, "You're coming to Virkove: yes or no?"

He shook his head, slowly enough to suggest that he could have been deliberating. When he spoke up, it was as if he was being asked the question for the first time. "No point going that far north. Surely there are active trade routes from some of the towns in Khanduras, or Sharval."

Anarei swallowed again, and this time, bit back the urge to swear, also. These days, she found she jumped between emotions: anger, frustration, indescribable loneliness and sadness. It was a rather unflattering self-perception. "We'll part ways once we get to Sharval, then. Or are you bent on ferrying me further north like a chaperone?"

She couldn't see his face, but she thought she heard a smile in his words. "I'll leave you alone once we've got you settled on your way straight back to Virkove. We'll both feel better about that, won't we?"

"Might as well part ways here and now, then. It's not like we're doing each other any good like this." Anarei fought back the scream that threatened to surface - she thought she did well. "I'm tired of this, of the fighting and the silence and the ice. You are, too, so maybe we should just stop while we're ahead."

Lear stopped in his steps, and turned around to face her. His hands were in his pockets and his posture was slightly slouched - she could see they were indeed both tired. "Thought you'd _like_ ice, considering where you're from; but sure - if we come across some caravan headed that way, I'd gladly see you off."

_Don't try to be smart._ She growled. "You really don't have to do this. You don't have to drop me off at a safe checkpoint, because I can get there myself. You want out, and I want out, so let's just... walk opposite directions."

There was an opening in the trees - she could see the fading sunlight beyond the low-hanging boughs. "I'll head there, and you'll walk away. And that'll be the end of this thing between us."

A sardonic chuckle - by the way he grinned, he almost looked genuinely happy. "Shouldn't you be glad for _that_, too? I've been so unpleasant, and you should be glad to be home and rid of my company."

Anarei shoved a branch out of the way. "I'm not staying with someone who obviously doesn't want me to stay. I'd expect the same of you. I don't want you here, and you don't want to be here. I'm failing to see how this is a bad idea."

"Except I don't want you to get yourself killed because you've been helping out the likes of me." Lear took his time with the words - as though he were reasoning with her. "Look, just bear with this until then. Please?"

"I keep telling you, I want to go." She felt her paces broaden, felt the rush of air in her lungs as she took step after quick step. Still, she knew he followed - and didn't know whether she was more annoyed, or grateful for his company.

The branches and bushes gave way; she broke in through the opening and found herself at the top of a mound. The grassy decline led into a valley, but it was the sky that caught her gaze.

Deep red, rich with tints of umber and blue. A rainbow arched into the pink clouds as if shot from between the peaks of the black hills. The cooler colours were washed out by their striking backdrop, yet the warmer ones were even more vivid.

Anarei felt her jaw slacken. "Oh."

Lear let out an inquisitive hum as he picked up his pace and stepped up to her. She waited for his comment, maybe a remark on the weather outlook, or even just an exclamation.

After a few seconds, still nothing.

_He's so grouchy, that even the sight of something so beautiful can't cheer him up?_

She bit her lip, then turned her head towards him. "...Are you committing the sight to memory? It's pretty."

Lear had turned away just as she'd addressed him. He spun around on his heels, and walked back into the thick of the trees, his steps notably more brisk than before.

Suddenly, she was confused.

"Lear, wait." It occurred to her then that she might choose to run the opposite direction instead - down the valley and into the open fields. She hesitated, but only briefly; and then her feet took her towards her sullen companion, and she followed without complaint. "What's wrong?"

He ignored her - or perhaps he didn't hear her - as he strode on. Anarei did notice, however, that his hands were out of his pockets - and they were fisted.

The sight both bewildered and worried her. She reached out with one hand, wrapping her fingers gently about his shoulder. "Lear, talk to me."

He jerked his shoulder roughly out of her grasp, but in the split moment before he did so, Anarei fancied she felt tremours through his cloak.

_It's not personal._ It was both a reminder, as well as realisation: she was suddenly very much aware of just how impersonal Lear's response was, at present. _It's not me; it's something else._

"Lear, tell me what's wrong." She reached out - but her hand fell short of touching him. _Not again, not if he doesn't want contact. _"Tell me, please?"

He kept walking, though his feet slowed; yet, he still refused to turn back and acknowledge her. She looked for his hands, seeking telltale gestures, but they were under his cloak and out of her sight.

She caught up then, close enough to hear him, touch him if needed. There was something nagging at her about his countenance, but she dismissed it, and pressed on. "What is it?"

He cowered; flinched away from her, and she could _see_ the tremours now - could see the tension in his shoulders, the way the shivers moved even the tips of his hair.

Then came two soft but crisp _clicks_.

_What was that?_

Instinct told her to run, but her legs were as heavy as lead. Anarei swallowed; the experience felt strangely reminiscent of an incident she'd once witnessed.

_When da dealt with that man, who'd lashed out after that raid. _She bit her lip. _But this is Lear - and he won't hurt me._

She held onto the thought, as she repeated her question. "What is it?"

All the sounds around her seemed to quieten. She heard his breathing - rough, shaking, and shallow, hissing through his teeth, wheezing from his throat. She heard it when he swallowed, heard the soft pops of his knuckles. Were they a result of him flexing his fingers, or closing his hands?

She simply wasn't sure - and worse, now she knew she was frightened.

_He won't hurt me._

The sharp crack of a breaking branch brought her back to her senses; all too late, she realised then that she'd taken a half-step back. Without thinking, she stretched her hand out, reached for him in a futile attempt to catch her balance.

Then she saw the glint of silver.

She felt the cold, sharp pain in her neck. Too shocked to even cry out, Anarei tried to back away, to _run_, but the strength seemed to drain from her body, and she crumpled onto the leaf litter.

_No._

The silver glimmered again; she rasped, tried to breathe. Lear was glowering down at her - frowning deeply, his eyes were narrowed, the blood red ambience of twilight making them look dark and bloodshot. She could almost hear the low growls through his bared teeth.

He approached her with his knives held out before him; one of them had a fine line of red along the edge of its blade.

_Stem the bleeding, stem the bleeding._

She repeated the words in her head, but none of them made sense. Her hands shook - she knew because her fingers were ineffectual; they slipped in the hot, sticky mess as she tried, and failed, again and again to plug the wound. All the while, she fought to keep her eyes upon the man before her, tried to scrabble back - but again, her body refused to budge.

He took a step closer, putting his foot down firmly, crunching the leaves beneath. The wet metal plating at the toe of his boot caught the light of the dying sun, and glistened.

It took one glimpse at his eyes for her to choke down the bile in her throat, and to scream.

Lear recoiled at the sound. Squeezed his eyes shut and winced, as if he was physically struck by her cry. Yet he maintained his grip upon his weapons.

_Oh, gods - I'm going to die._

She cried out again, hating the desperation in her voice, hating the way the shriek gave way to lesser whimpers. The pain in her neck, once sharp, had dulled if only a little to an even, throbbing ache - she screamed, again. Refused to look him in the eyes, refused to look at the face of the man she was sure would, and could kill her there and then. Tried again to back away, and was met with her own state of fright-induced paralysis.

"'Narei?"

The way he said her name - he sounded uncertain and confused. The kind of tone one would expect from an acquaintance seen in an unlikely place.

It scared her all the more. She was only aware that she'd choked out some words, and hoped they were sufficient to convey her meaning.

_Don't touch me._

The blade-laden hands moved, shifted. Lear took a moment to scrutinise his knives, his head tilting as he noted the blood. Then they clattered to the ground, and Lear lowered himself to his hands and knees.

"Ana-"

Her body snapped into action, then. The sound that left her mouth was a rasp - like there was sand coating her vocal chords. She heard herself whimper afterwards, and panted even as she kicked up some mud in her haste to back away.

Lear spoke up again, his own voice a weak choke. "Anarei, what -"

He reached out for her.

She scrambled to her feet - tripped. The sounds of clinking vials within her swaying pack rose, eliciting several snaps and cracks thereafter. Amidst her own crying, she heard only the echo of his voice as it spoke her name.

It urged her to run - and so she did.

* * *

_What did you do?_

He didn't know for sure, but it was easy enough to guess. Blood - Anarei's blood - on his weapon. It was easy to put two and two together.

_What were you doing?_

That, he really didn't know.

He remembered seeing the scene - the dusk-washed valley, the sharply-shadowed hills, the pink-dusted clouds. The rainbow.

He had thought it was pretty. Just as he'd thought it was pretty _then_.

_You went _back_ again, didn't you?_

He had lost the grips on himself, on his mind, and he had hurt her. This time, he'd _actually_, physically wounded her. And gods only knew where she was now, how she was doing - she could be bleeding out, or dead.

Lear tried to urge his mind's eye to open once more. He closed his physical eyes, tried to see if that would help him focus, but only ended up going _back_, again and again.

_It really _was_ a beautiful scene. You couldn't have guessed at what it heralded. But in hindsight, it was really quite poetic, wasn't it? A sky and a room, both awashed with blood._

_Some sick poetry the gods have composed. _He found himself chuckling. _There was no rainbow in the room, though. _

He admonished himself for losing focus. Picking up his bloodied knife in one hand and taking the hem of his shirt in the other, he ran his thumb along the razor edge, wiping off the blood and taking care not to cut himself.

_You'd cut her._ He waited, then felt what he identified as anger and shame for himself and concern for the girl. Both of these sat better with him than the numbness that arose when he'd thought about this some half an hour ago. He felt a little more optimistic about the likelihood of his _not _becoming debilitated, should the memories arise again.

Lear sat up from where he lay upon the forest floor, sheathed his weapons, took a deep breath, and tried to focus on the darkness behind his eyelids. That warded away the images - they were fading now, becoming disembodied and smoke-like.

He shifted his focus to his core, searched for the muted but incessant hum and flicker of his own being. He reached for it, and it surged up to the front of his mind, washed over the back of his eyeballs.

At once, life lit up about him - he saw the plants around him, the insects beneath him, various animals moving in the forest, some tainted with demonic infection.

He narrowed his focus - no peridot.

But he _had_ to find her.

_Do it the way you've been taught, then, Sighthound. _

Lear opened his eyes, pushed himself to his feet, and began looking for footprints and branches broken in haste.

* * *

_He hadn't meant to do it. He hadn't meant to do it, surely, he hadn't._

Anarei's hands were still trembling when she'd finally found enough sense to uncork a vial of potion - it burned her throat, but she forced herself to swallow. It was only after she'd taken a twisted knot of her cloak between her teeth, afterwards, that she'd dared to press a potion-sodden piece of linen to the wound. Healed to less severity after the vial she'd drunk, it still stung.

_If he'd struck just a little bit differently - just a little bit lower..._

She let out a faint groan as the moist knot of fabric in her mouth shifted - saliva dripped onto her knee. Somewhere between Lear and the cave she'd tumbled into, she'd fallen and cut her trousers. None of those injuries were life-threatening, however.

Exhausted and drained, she slumped back. The bloodstained vial she'd clutched fell - it broke with a small crash. She heard the echoes.

_He cut me._

She repeated the words; not quite understanding, she whispered them aloud, and wondered if they would make more sense then. The motion strained her throat, and she was reminded again of the moment.

_Silver._

The thought made her flinch. She recalled weeks and months spent believing Lear would never raise a hand to hurt her - even when he'd had reason to, even when he'd been at his worst. Alone, she wondered if she'd ever believed, before that moment, that he could have hurt her at all.

_Clearly, he can, and has._

Shivers coursed through her body - it was cold, but Anarei knew as she struggled to tug her cloak close that the chill was the least of her worries. She was alone - alone, in a hole, hiding from a man who'd been her companion just hours ago.

_But this is what you'd wanted, isn't it? A clean break? You have it now. _She swallowed, hard, knowing the tears would come if she allowed herself to feel the panic again. _This is anything but a clean break, though. It only complicates matters._

She took a deep breath, felt the raw skin at her neck, traced the muscle and counted the beats that drummed against the cold, clammy flesh. The scar swelled against her fingertip - a reminder.

_A reminder of what?_ Anarei curled in on herself and gnashed her teeth together. They chattered. _A reminder of this day, that moment I almost died? Or a reminder of a person who could've been my friend, who'd hurt me?_

_He hadn't meant to._

She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out the image of his face - confused, lost, like a frightened animal caught outside the woods. _He hadn't meant to hurt me, but he did, anyway. How do I forgive that? How do I forget?_

Anarei didn't know.

Her breathing stilled. She blinked the film from her eyes and deigned to gaze about. How long she'd run, she had little idea, but she'd eventually tumbled into a cave. It was deep enough to block out even the light of the moon that, by then, had risen. Still, the musky depths were fairly well-lit.

Anarei bit back a gasp. _How're these caves lit? _The surge of panic, so recently suppressed, began to rise again. She'd failed to fully inspect her surroundings; the cut had taken precedence. Now, she racked her mind for plausible answers, and came up with few: crystals, plant life, insects.

_Ideally, it'd be natural light. _But she knew better than to rely on luck. _Those _gods had been watching their other children as of late.

Then she heard the scuttling, glimpsed the curve of a spiked and talon-tipped leg - heard the spray of acid and the soft clicking of pincers. The insect - it knew.

Frozen again, she allowed herself a split second in which to ponder if she would, truly, be able to run this time.

* * *

Lear watched as the remaining tens of spiderlings scurried back into the shadowed holes. There was no point trying to go after them - there were _hundreds_, if not thousands of spiders living within the huge limestone cave complex, after all.

In an attempt to remove some of the thick, oily goo that served as the spiders' blood, Lear scraped his boots against the old pavers that lined the cavern's floors. He allowed himself a moment of amusement as he pondered how people had come, established some form of a living space, only to leave again. He wondered if they were driven out or went willingly.

_Or perhaps they never got to leave. _

He craned his neck towards the walls and spotted a corpse entangled in a web - now no more than an empty husk, its skin looked about to crumble into dust. The body showed no sign of having started decaying before it got liquefied and sucked dry, however, unlike some of the other corpses he'd come across along the way.

_Compared to the undead, this fellow's lucky to only have to die once._

Hearing soft squeals and the clicking of claws, Lear scanned the path ahead, then sprinted towards it as energy rushed through his legs, burst from his feet. He kicked off the stone floor strongly, ignoring the soft cracks that he could feel through the thick soles of his boots.

_So much demonic life in this place. _

The cavern was lit by the glowing sacs, both in his mind and before his eyes. He was sure he could see the unborn spiderlings moving within them, jostling the sacs about, emitting faint squelches as the little demons sensed his movements.

_Or my warmth. Perhaps they're hungry. _

There were a lot of hungry beings about as of late.

His path was halted by three larger spiders - almost as tall as he was. He dashed around the poison they spat at him, locked his sight onto the closest one, and shot forward to send an electrified kick directly into its mandibles. As the monster recoiled, he kicked at its chest with his other leg, sending it flying backward into its fellow demons before exploding with a shrill dying shriek.

Ignoring the feeble squeaks from the injured and immobilised spiders, Lear shook off the gore weighing down his boots and kept running. _She's here._

He'd caught a glimpse of the distinct shade of green; now aware of where she was, he only had to find his way through the remnants of narrow paths still cutting through the dense masses of translucent spider thread.

Translucent, but iridescent to his mind's eye. Thread woven with demonic magic. Lear wondered if it meant they couldn't be cut by mere blades, considered what would happen if he should touch them.

He decided he probably didn't want to find out.

He ran on, stopping only to clear enough of a path through enemies that lurked in the caves - spiders aside, there were ghouls with bleached skin, wielding old blades covered in rust - or old blood. Lear didn't particularly care as he coated his own knives in their blood. It made him feel better, now that the taste of Anarei's no longer lingered upon his weapon.

The cavern was starting to feel like a maze to him - he would approach the beacon of Anarei's peridot, only to be met with a stone wall, a sheer drop-off into dark water gushing beneath, or an entanglement of web too dense for even light to penetrate. He would have to go around, and find another way that seemed to strongly disagree with his sense of direction.

_At least you know she's alive. That you didn't kill her. _

At least there was that. He kicked at a tall stalagmite that was barely starting to join with the stalactite above to form a column. Recalling learning how long these features took to take their shapes, he felt a petulant sort of satisfaction at the instantaneous destruction of such an artefact.

He rounded a corner, kicked a spiderling aside towards the shadows, and heard the splash a few seconds later. That was another thing, then - _At least she didn't fall through a crack. _

Looking up ahead, Lear was glad to see something affirmative - it looked like a small, derelict doorway, built in a similar style of architecture with the stone pavers, as well as some broken columns and stairways he had come across along the way. The entrance was only partially sealed by spider thread, with dismembered corpses in various states woven into the construct. The webs formed a funnel into the dimly-lit chamber beyond.

Anarei was in there.

Apprehensive about entering what looked to be the personal space of an oversized spider, Lear gingerly nudged a mangled, partially-melted arm free of its thread bindings with his toes, and kicked it through the doorway.

He heard the whimper long before his eyes found her.

"...You got caught up?"

Anarei was trembling, hunched in the shadows some distance away. One hand gripped a sword tightly, her knuckles pale - yet both her sword and hand were rendered useless by the swathes of web wound about her wrist and forearm. Greenish-white blood dripped from the sword tip; several mangled spider corpses lay about her feet, and then a few some paces off. Her other arm was likewise bound from the elbow up - she was trapped.

She stared at him helplessly. There was no mistaking the fear in her eyes. "Are you here to finish what you started?"

Lear tried to find his voice, only to discover his words choked back before they could come out. He had nothing to say to that.

In lieu of adequate words, he growled.

Anarei flinched into her shoulder, baring her neck - in the dim light of the cavern, he saw the new scar; caked with dried blood, rivulets of sweat had caused the red to run, wetting her already-stained shirt and matting hair onto her skin. She gave her leg a feeble jerk.

Lear sighed impatiently, but reminded himself that he couldn't afford to spare much time bantering, in any case - the chamber was expansive, and in his mind, it was glaringly bright. His head had started to ache.

He sheathed his knives and reached out to pry the entangling web from around Anarei's elbow. "Let's get out."

She inhaled sharply, tried to pull away - and failed. "What're you doing?"

"...Getting you out." The web was stubborn, as he'd expected. He remembered the thought he'd filed away for later consideration, and wondered if he should try to cut it using his knives. His hand made its way to the weapon strapped to his thigh.

The breaths rose, harder and faster as Anarei squirmed. "What're you _doing_?!" The squirming served only to entangle her further, but she'd lost all composure. "Don't touch me - _don't touch me!_"

Lear made another frustrated grunt and unsheathed his weapon nevertheless, trying his best to ignore the cries ravaging his right eardrum. The warmth surged through his hand into his weapon, and when the humming of the metal was synchronised with the humming of his core, blue-grey streaks of lightning burst from the blade.

He sliced deftly at the web and only a thin layer of threads fell away at the surface of the dense mat. Not as much success as he'd hoped. He dropped his backpack by Anarei's feet, and flexed his fingers.

"This will take a while..."

Anarei had shrieked aloud when the lightning brightened the cavern - but afterwards, she'd remained silent, merely letting out the occasional panicked sob. She gazed at him now, eyes wide with bewilderment.

Seeing her face out of the corner of his eye, Lear paused in his work and blinked at her, unsure of what her expression meant. "...I'm sorry," he tested.

She stared at him for only a moment - then her face crumbled and she slumped forward, bowing her head low. Her hands clenched; one about her sword-hilt, the other into its palm. She muttered, but he heard little.

He was little over halfway through cutting through the web binding Anarei's forearm when he sensed it. His blood chilled - not that he wasn't expecting some of the spiders to catch up with him. He was not surprised that something was approaching.

He _was_ surprised, however, at the perceived _size_ of this approaching thing.

"Anarei," he murmured, reaching for his other knife even as he kept working away at her bonds. "What caught you?"

"Big spider." This time, he heard the whisper. She lifted her head, her eyes meeting his. Her chest heaved, her teeth clenched - then she hissed, "Leave."

Her face said otherwise.

Lear remained crouching close to her even as the creature made its way closer. He wondered if it had marked him already, if it were sentient enough to start salivating in anticipation.

"Don't startle it." He sharpened his focus and marked his enemy - a large spider, with a prominent abdomen. A female. _The queen of this huge cluster of spiders, perhaps? _

Anarei choked back a weak sound. "Lear-"

He spun around when the spider queen came within range. Lightning exploded from his knife and both his boots as he swung a kick into what would be the spider's cheek. The two sets of jaws shifted, a thick stream of green-tinged saliva was deflected and splattered onto the floor, leaving a darkened, steaming trail. Behind him, Anarei let out a faint scream.

Lear pulled back from the kick with a wince; the spider's armour was harder than he had anticipated. He recovered quickly enough, however, to leap off the floor and kick the spider three times - the last one was brought down like an axe, with all his momentum behind it, straight into the joint of the spider's neck.

The monster squealed and retreated halfway across the chamber. Lear snuck in a few more cuts at the web around Anarei's elbow - he was getting there, slowly but surely. Her other arm was bound in two places, but if he could get that one arm free -

"Stop, stop!" Anarei's shriek was punctuated with a rapid forward jerking of her arm - the movement caused the web to stretch, several half-severed tendrils ripping away. The warning, however, did not go amiss.

The spider queen had returned for her prey.

Lear turned around, meaning to rush at his enemy, but was met with a scene of green. It took him a split second to remember the particular shade, and he jerked away just in time for the spittal to miss his head. Instead, it hit him on the chest and side, searing through the light leather beneath his coat.

Desperately trying to curb his rising panic, he stabbed the approaching spider in one of her eight eyes, and, mustering up his energy, retreated some ten yards back in a single desperate leap. His legs burned the way they always did every time he used that particular technique, but with this distance, he had enough time to recover. That was, if the spider didn't decide to attack Anarei instead.

For once, the gods seemed to acquiesce; the spider queen scuttled towards him. Lear took in the demoness from afar - saliva dripped from her somewhat-distended jaws, her eye was oozing some milky fluid, and her body armour was dented in several places. There were two shallow but messy gashes, one crossing over another, in the side of her neck that he had not noticed before.

Maybe he could use those. _Thanks for that, Anarei. _

The spider charged; Lear straightened, backed against the wall and held his ground, willed himself to keep calm, to stay put.

He jumped aside a split instant before the spider could impale him with her dripping pincers. As she'd lodged herself into the stone wall, pinned there by her own weapons, Lear pumped as much force as he dared into his knife, and rammed the crackling weapon through the crossed gashes - the chink in the spider queen's armour.

The demoness squealed and jerked. Lear dropped his other knife and held his wrist with his free hand - her flesh, even without the armouring, was tough and put up much resistance. When he finally lost his grip on his weapon, the spider was still jerking hard, apparently not quite dying.

It didn't help that her earlier spit attack on him was taking effect, too.

He swiped up his weapons and dashed back to Anarei, noting that she'd managed to pull herself a little bit freer while he was preoccupied. He started cutting at her bonds again - she strained against them, grunting hard.

"You're hurt." The hurriedly-breathed words reverberated with his own sentiments. Anarei made another frustrated sound through her teeth, now breathless in her terror. "Gods."

He ignored her until the webs were ripped from her arm. "We don't have the time for that." Laying his own blade aside, he made to draw her sheathed sword for her. The sword clicked as it was moved from its scabbard, but its weight took him by surprise. He realised even his _own_ weapon in his other hand felt heavier. _Damn, we really don't have time._

For her part, Anarei had ceased to speak - either frightened into silence or too deeply focused in her pursuits. She jerked her freed arm, shrugging into the web to loosen its hold of her shoulder, then cried out as her fingertips barely touched the tip of her hilt. "Lear." The pant was one of desperation. "Lear-"

He grabbed her hand and wrapped it insistently around the hilt. "Work with me." He turned back for a quick check; the spider was fighting the paralytic effects of the lightning, and cracks had started to form in the old limestone wall where her pincers were embedded. "We don't have time. Work with me."

Anarei obeyed. Kicking her one free leg out, she attempted twisting her lower body free, and failing that, drew the sword. She swung it with a frenzied cry at the web binding her other arm - there, web clung to steel. Her failure to break free drew another frustrated sound, this one a half-wail, half-sob; then she gritted her teeth and began to saw. "My foot, get the-"

Her foot was stuck to the floor, rather than to more sticky web. He found it easier to whittle the threads at the points where they were tacked to the dusty stone pavers, and freed her foot relatively quickly.

Lear stood after that, shutting his eyes against the wave of nausea that threatened to overtake him, and approached the spider once more - the demoness was fighting too hard for comfort. "Keep working at that."

Despite his own discomfort, he could tell that Anarei was fast draining of strength. Still she continued to cut, doggedly clutching both swords as she worked with one.

Lear sent another surge of lightning into the spider queen through her sword wound, once again immobilising her temporarily. He tried twisting his blade, only to decide it wasn't worth the risk of breaking his delicate weapon against the hard, unyielding flesh. His own stamina was running low - he was no mage, he knew, and using what magic he possessed in such a raw form was exhausting.

So he decided to prioritise cutting Anarei free over incapacitating the demoness.

Anarei tumbled forward with a weak yelp just as he turned. He saw the severed webs and noted the messy, jagged ends - some still brushed her arm, but they could be easily pulled away. She held her swords, still, their tips touching the ground, steel grating rock as her shaking hands failed to still.

She looked up at him. He thought she looked confused.

_No time, no time._ No time even for confusion. He ran towards her - or as it turned out, half-stumbled. "Come on..." He lowered himself, strapped his pack over his chest, and offered her his back. "We have to go."

Again, she obeyed without complaint, and numbly, but quickly enough sheathed both swords - he was grateful for it.

He snatched Anarei up, his grunt at her weight dying in his throat as he heard the crumbling of the spider queen's trappings. The stones of the wall had begun to collapse - some narrowly missing the demoness' spike-tipped legs.

Anarei's fingers dug into the flesh of his shoulders, and Lear dove through the cavern, weaving through the meandering paths, guided by the lights that were now swimming in his mind's eye. He recalled several exits to the outside from his journey through this labyrinth, and made a beeline for the nearest one.

A sharp crack - broken bones paved his way, and Lear barely had the time to register the corpse of a blue-clad woman, barely had a moment to lament how close she was to freedom and apologise for desecrating her body, before they crashed through the small opening.

They fell and rolled. Anarei whimpered as they sped downhill over rough stone and mud, and he sighed as they finally came to a stop at the bottom of the slope. Out in the open, the moon was bright and the land was quiet.

Quiet. Lear tried to listen, and did not pick up the tell-tale tittering of spidery claws. _Either she's not chasing you, or you just can't hear her. _He breathed a sigh of relief - or resignation.

"Anarei?" He called out for her.

She did not respond. He turned to her, and found her eyes closed, her breathing shallow and laboured, and her face damp with sweat. A shiver coursed her body, but she was otherwise still.

Overtaken by alarm, Lear pushed himself to his knees, only to fall helplessly onto his face. He growled, feeling the dirt stick to his front teeth, and tried to roll onto his back, but could no longer find the strength to do so.

He'd dragged them both out of that place; at the least, he had wanted to see the moon before he died. Instead, Lear let out an ironic laugh and choked on the soil that he inhaled.

_It sure is a beautiful full moon tonight, _he mused. _I hope you saw it before you closed your eyes, Anarei. _

* * *

**Authors' Notes:**

**Em: **A very long (and hopefully long-awaited) chapter! We're sorry about the delay, but one of us has been rather busy with work. She's got to jetset away again immediately after this, so we're really glad we got to get this chapter out! And boy, what a write it was!

**Oph: **It's not even just being busy. I was actually away from internet access for three weeks and had three hours max per day to myself during that time. I accept full responsibility for this being out so late. Thanks to **Heka**,** Nightbreed6**,** Voren**,** SlowActingPoison **(who also checked in on us when we were quiet for a bit longer than usual), and** philosophy** for the reviews and encouragement!

**Em:** We're always glad to hear your comments, thoughts, ideas and guesses! It gives us plenty of brain juice to write, and keeps us pumping! If you've got any of those, do click on the review button and drop us a line (or ten!). But moving on to disclaimers: We do NOT own the Diablo franchise or any of their characters - we merely characterise.

**Oph: **We'll be moving onto some new characters in the upcoming chapter, so look forward to it! We'll also, of course, address the new characters from the last chapter soon. Everything's on track and all will be revealed in due time! We do hope you'll keep enjoying the ride with us.

**Em: **Until then, we hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Toodles!


	16. Chapter 15: Instinct and Impulse

**Chapter 15**

**Instinct and Impulse**

* * *

_Don't run so fast, Kyri. I can't keep up._

The leaves rustled beneath the soles of his deerskin boots. He heard a soft crack, identified it as no more than a branch, and kept walking. The morning sun warmed his face, coupled with the occasional breath of a sweet, pine-scented breeze. From where he stood, Lochi could hear the familiar sound of rushing water - on warmer days, he'd visit the nearby creek to wet his feet.

_Well, try. You're so slow._ He heard the tone of complaint quite distinctly - his companion was some distance away, though her voice rang true in his mind. Clear, like a bell. _There's a step there, so don't trip and fall on your face._

He sighed, reached up with one hand; rough bark bristled against the palm of his hand, cold and wet to the touch. There were ants along his path - large ones. They warned against his presence. In turn, Lochi sought to assure the miniature army. _I don't mean any of you any harm._

Kyri made a sound. It reverberated in his mind once again. _Hurry up! I'm hungry, and if you keep this up, there'll be nothing for sale but stale bread._

This time, Lochi laughed aloud. The sound echoed in the woods; feathers ruffled as some birds took flight. _You don't even eat bread, Kyri._

_Fine. You can starve, then, and I'll hunt for myself._ Kyri sounded unimpressed. He fancied he heard the animal equivalent of a human scoff - the idea made him laugh again. Her voice returned._ I'd rather eat wild hare, anyway._

_We'll see if there's one for sale, alright? So you can rest your legs. Now stop worrying, or you'll shed your tail-fur away. I'm coming._

He felt the leaves that fell from their boughs tickle his skin, heard the whispers of the trees and woodland creatures, smelled the earthen fragrance of wet soil following a night of heavy rain. When he'd finally caught up, Kyri was waiting at the base of a tree upon a thick buttress root. She flicked her fluffy tail at him, the soft fur brushing his calf.

_Sorry to keep you waiting._ Lochi knelt, reached out a hand. The vixen nuzzled into his palm, her soft, wet nose twitching as she breathed.

_You _are _aware we do this every day, right?_ She hopped off her perch; he fell into pace by her side. Together, they walked.

_So?_ He sidestepped a protruding root. _That doesn't make any of this any less amazing. You were born in the wilds, Kyri - you should know better than me._

_You've got the wilds flowing in your veins, druid. _

Lochi chuckled dryly. He spoke aloud, then, "You make it sound so romantic. Pity I'm not _seeing _any of it."

Sensing discord, Kyri stopped. He wasn't surprised. In their years of companionship, the vixen had learnt to sense his emotions, sometimes even before he'd realised them himself.

_There's no need to sound so bitter about it. Who needs sight, when their senses are as keen as yours?_

He sighed tiredly. The darkness threatened to overwhelm his senses - he fought back the mild irritation, and sought the warmth of the lightless sun._ I scalded myself reaching for the kettle this morning. How keen can those senses be, hm?_

Kyri was silent. He got the idea she harboured disgruntled sentiments. _You lied to me. The cold water wasn't for the goldfish, then? _

_What's this, little girl? You let a blind man deceive you?_ Despite himself, Lochi chuckled. The sound came out a little more forcedly cheerful than he'd hoped it would. I'm s_orry. I know I joke about it, but sometimes, I feel ashamed of myself, alright?_

_You're an idiot. _She flicked her tail sharply at him._ I keep telling you, there's so much you can do with the potential you have._

Lochi pursed his lips, then brushed his hair back. It had grown rather long; the wavy tendrils tickled the nape of his neck. He hoped it didn't look as dirty as it felt._ Maybe. Maybe not. But all the potential I've got for today is reserved for cleaning the house and cooking our dinner. Alright?_

_No._

He halted. _What do you mean, no?_

Kyri darted forward a few paces - Lochi noted an urgency to her tone that had not been there previously._ I mean, no. There's someone - oh! There's people here._

The first thing he sensed was the stench - dank with a distinctive mustiness, it was a familiar smell. _Kyri... is it a wet dog, or is it a person? It smells like you on the days you roll around playing in mud._

_It's human. _She darted back, and he felt her brush his legs as she moved behind him.

Lochi bent, held out his arms. In response, the vixen hopped into his hold. It_ is human?_

Kyri batted at his chin sharply with one velvety paw. _Don't try to be clever. He is human. She's human, too._

He froze. _Oh, gods above, please tell me they're clothed, at the very least? We pick edible greens in this neck of the woods, you know._

_You're nasty._ The vixen in his arms sounded both annoyed and anxious. She wriggled, before hopping and landing upon the leaf litter with a soft thud. _They're clothed, but soaked. It rained last night, in case you've forgotten._

Lochi grunted. He was suddenly aware that it was going to be a _very _long day.

_The question is, however - what were you two doing out here?_

For the moment, the druid decided he really didn't want to know.

* * *

Lear woke to the sound of footsteps - they faded quickly at first, but then they got louder, sharper, and he was terrifyingly aware of their approach as leaves crunched and sticks cracked.

There were two sets - a person, and a small four-legged animal. _A hunter and his hound? _

He had somehow managed to turn onto his side during the downpour overnight, saving himself from drowning in a puddle of mud; but now his limbs were heavy - so heavy, in fact, that he couldn't even shiver from the cold.

Giving up on his limbs, Lear mustered up as much willpower as he could and pried open his eyelids - a low-angled sun shone through the thick foliage of trees; a bird was sunning itself from a branch. In the foreground, soggy leaves, glistening from the rain. An earthworm was struggling out of the waterlogged soil.

Having garnered no useful information from one sense of sight, he called upon his other one.

Anarei was at his back, unmoving; she probably hadn't moved since he'd dropped her the previous night. He didn't have to look far before he found the owners of the footprints; they were but several yards away, and that was _much_ too close to his head for his liking.

Lear made to call out, to ward them off - he gasped as his airways constricted at the sudden invasion of chill, and, unresponsive as his body was, he wheezed and coughed.

"I don't suppose you mean us any harm?" The voice that called out was mellow and warm. Its owner did not advance.

A light, but rich blue - a deep pool, calm and mild, just a little bit turbulent at its slowly-swirling , it was not hard to believe that the man was really more worried about getting hurt as opposed to hurting him; his voice was too genuinely confused.

_I won't if you don't,_ Lear wanted to say, but his voice did not seem to work, and he merely moaned tiredly and defeatedly. He hoped it sounded dismissive enough to serve as an answer.

It didn't. The man approached, taking a careful step and entering his field of vision. Sunlight glinted off his pale hair, though his eyes remained shadowed. He was frowning. "Forgive my intrusion, but my companion thought you and your lady-friend might be in need of some assistance."

Lear thought he'd noticed something strange about the way the man looked at him, but now that he had stepped closer, he could see his eyes - soft grey eyes, a cloudy film washing over his pupils. In his mind, the rich blue glow fell short of filling the man's eyeballs, leaving two dark holes.

_A blind man and a pet red fox. _Lear allowed his head to slump into the ground, calmed his breathing, and tried his voice again. "As- Assistance, huh?"

The man chuckled helplessly, lifting a hand to rub at the back of his head. "In a manner of speaking. This here's Kyri. She's my guide, and my friend - she found you." He nudged the vixen forward with his foot; she refused to budge. "And she's insisting I help, of course, if needed."

"How?" Lear pushed down the hot impatience bubbling through his body as the man carried on casually. He was wet, he was cold, he couldn't move. He felt dirty and ill. His chest and side ached and itched where the spider queen's poison had burnt his flesh. Moreover, _Anarei _was ill, and since his realisation about her possible condition the previous night just before he passed out at some point, he was feeling increasingly anxious. He swallowed. "How c-can you help?"

That took the smile off clean off the man's face. If anything, he looked stricken, but only for a moment. He cleared his throat, backed the step he had taken, and bowed at the waist, his expression taking on a somewhat sheepish cast. "You tell me. I cannot possibly hope to assist in any way if I'm lacking information; and you, sir, have given me none." He thinned his lips, the words bluntly-spoken, "I'm also well aware that I am blind, and likely of very little use."

Lear blinked in surprise at the effect his few words had on the man, but he filed it away for later contemplation. "The girl, sir." He got his saliva flowing somewhat, and swallowed again. "She's been bitten by the spider." He tried to turn to Anarei - or even just onto his back. His thumb gave a feeble twitch and his abdominal muscles cramped up, but otherwise his body was still. "And... I can't move."

The man stiffened, tapping the forest floor with his booted foot. He looked perturbed. "Ah. _That _spider?"

Lear tried to sound as courteous as he could, despite his shortening fuse. "The big one... the queen in the limestone caves uphill from here."

As if sensing his displeasure, the man raised his hands. His voice had assumed a superficial calmness. "You must not be from here - it's common knowledge around these parts that those caves aren't safe for travel." He sighed quietly. "I have the roots and herbs necessary for nullifying the poisons in my home. It's... quite a distance away, however."

Lear rolled his eyes, glad that the man could not see - but then realised that while the man was blind, his _fox_ was looking at him intently, and he had a strange feeling that she was giving him a dirty look.

He let out a sharp puff of air in resignation. "Please... help us. Help _her_."

"Mm." The man pursed his lips once again; he cocked his head down at the vixen, and between them passed a moment of silence. She darted away then, and he once again lifted his head, his brows furrowed. Finally, he sighed - a deep and heavy thing. "I'm not strong enough, or sure-footed enough, even, to lift her on my own. You're going to have to help me, whether or not you can feel your legs at the moment. Kyri seems to think you're not as badly off as your lady."

_I still can't move,_ Lear mused in despair; but he _was_ feeling more awake, and he _could_ feel his limbs somewhat, now that he was warmed by the sun - they were tingling, and when he tried to move them, the cold muscles cramped painfully in protest. He winced sharply.

The man's brows were furrowed as he made his way towards the pair of them. Up close, Lear saw that he was really quite short - perhaps not much taller than Anarei, if at all, and thin-framed beneath oversized clothes. "Kyri's off to get something that will help you. You're going to have to chew and swallow, and I know you won't want to, because you don't trust me." He knelt, then, his frown deepening. "I wouldn't, neither, but you really don't have much of a choice at the moment. So before she gets back, is there anything you'd like to know about me, to ease the next few hours for us all?"

"Who are you?" Lear shot back straightaway, more desperately than he'd have liked. "And tell me how my companion's doing, sir, if you will?"

The man acquiesced, but not before offering a slight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "My name is Lochi." He straightened, making towards Anarei - Lear tensed for a moment, but then Lochi simply pressed his fingers to her neck, tracing her jawline in his search for a pulse. If he'd felt the recently-acquired scar, he did nothing to show it. "She's alive, but she won't be for long if she was bitten directly. We'll need to hurry..."

"There's another... issue." Lear's voice weakened as he felt his throat clench up. "We'll need to restrain her. The spider might've fed on the undead, and if she'd bitten her after..." He bit down on the insides of his cheeks to curb the rising panic. "...We'll have to play it safe."

Lochi arched a brow. "Wouldn't it be easier to take care of it _now_, then?" Despite the nature of his response, he remained squatting beside Anarei - he certainly didn't look as if he wanted to take any drastic actions. "It may pose a big problem later, and people almost always turn when they come into close contact with the undead."

"_Almost_," Lear grunted in response, wondered about the number of undeads with which Leah had come into contact, and spared but a split second to wonder how the archivist was doing now. "I thought only those who'd been wounded by them would turn; so perhaps the... illness, curse, poison, whatever - of turning is carried by spittle... or blood, I can't be sure." He frowned, and cursed his current helplessness. "I know undeads were fed on, but not by _which_ spider. I don't know if the undead-whatever would _linger_ in a spider's bite that way. I just _don't know_." He lifted his eyes to the Lochi, staring at him despite knowing he could not see. "We'll play it safe - we'll bind her, tie her down, and if she turns, I will take care of_ that_ problem myself."

Lochi appeared satisfied - and more than that, relieved. There was a tinge of sadness to his expression, even as he lifted his head, as if having noticed something. Half a moment later, the vixen returned, bearing a thin strip of some deep-green herb. "I've heard the rumours, of course. And in the case of those already dead, one has to wonder at which point the turning occurs, if there's no exchange of spittle, or blood. At any rate, we'll keep her safe for now." He cocked his head a little, shutting his eyes. "Come on, then. Chew, swallow, and we'll get you both from here."

The vixen padded up to Lear, her soft furry tail brushing past his forehead as she nosed gently at his face. Between her teeth sat the herb - a long leaf, thick and stiff, smelling strongly of grass. Clear, viscous sap oozed from the broken end.

Kyri nudged the herb against his lips. He licked at the sap smeared there - it tasted sharp and bitter. _I can't believe I'm being mouth-fed by a fox._

Lear braced himself, and crunched down onto the leaf. Bitter sap burst into his mouth, and he almost gagged on it. He made an involuntary whine, mentally kicked himself for it, and chewed on more of the herb with a newfound indignation.

He took four tries forcing down the fibrous wad of chewed-up leaf, and had tears in his eyes as he swallowed, trying both to get rid of the taste and to fight back the urge to throw up.

Lochi wore an expression of empathy, the slight curl of his lips making up his wry smile. "It's not a pleasant taste, but you'll start feeling your limbs a bit more soon. Is there anything we should start gathering, first?" He gestured in the general direction of Lear's pack, which lay several feet away. Kyri was tugging doggedly at its strap, dragging it in the soil with distinct sloshing sounds. Her human companion pursed his lips then, looking disgusted. "We'll get that washed, too."

Lear shook his head as best he could. "It's been through worse." He wasn't at all worried about his pack. True to Lochi's words, however, his body seemed more responsive - joints cracked as he tried to shift them. Muscles first seized, then relaxed as they warmed; they ached as he pushed himself onto his elbows and knees, and his burns smarted sharply with the movement. He could feel his legs - they felt like jelly.

But at least he was _moving_.

"Better, then," Lochi remarked. He cocked his head towards Anarei, one hand absently brushing her rain-dampened curls from her face. "Your lady-friend is going to need those herbs, soon, so may I suggest we make the best of the time we still have at present?"

"You can start tying her up if you want," Lear wheezed as he tried to get his feet under him. "There's rope in my backpack."

Lochi narrowed his eyes. Clearly, he did not approve.

Lear wasn't quite sure he deserved the look. "What? I'm trying to learn how to _not_ fall over as quickly as I can, alright?" He sighed. "What other suggestions do you have, Mister Lochi?"

"Unless you're planning on dragging her by rope around her ankles, I don't think tying her up right now is necessary." Lochi responded dryly. "She may be out of it, but she's a person. We still have a day or two before she turns, if she turns."

Lear grumbled as he pushed himself onto one knee, wavering for a moment before overcoming the vertigo. "...Right." He gasped for a while as warm blood flooded his extremities, and once he was more confident about his stability, turned to Lochi once more, trying for a more humble tone of voice. "I'll... need some help getting her up. I'll probably need a boost standing up, too."

Lochi got to his feet. "Come on, then." Bending once again, he slipped an arm under Lear's own, pausing only to query, "Are you ready?"

Even with Lochi's help, getting to his feet was no easy feat. It felt to Lear as if he had some toes missing, and his boots felt like they were plated with lead rather than steel. His knees buckled, and he tried to recall whether he had dislocated his kneecaps as of late. His burns stung again, and now that he was upright, he could see where his shirt was stuck to raw, abused flesh by the weeping pus.

By the time they'd managed to secure Anarei's weight between the both of them, the vixen had dragged his pack over; the new layer of dirt coated its exterior, turning it a dark, mucky shade of brown. Lochi let out a sigh, then bent to retrieve it. He slung it over his shoulder, where Anarei's pack hung, also. "By the by, I don't believe I have your name - or hers, for that matter. How shall I address you?"

"Huh?" That took Lear by surprise, pulling his attention away from his former pursuit of flexing his toes. "Oh, pardon me... my name's Lear. She's Anarei." He looked away, and gingerly tried to place his right foot forward. He succeeded. "My apologies for... all this trouble."

"I'm sure there's a thrilling tale that goes with it." Lochi dipped his head tiredly. "But that'll have to wait. For now, Lear, let's get you out of here."

* * *

She heard the hissing and whispering; soft, hushed tones that told her she was among people. She heard the pitter-patter of rain - or was that imagined? - and the soft thumping of feet upon wooden floors. Occasionally, she thought she felt warmth upon her face. Those moments rarely lasted.

When Anarei opened her eyes, it was light.

She tried to speak, but there were no words. There was a lock of hair on her cheek, it tickled at her skin; she tried to raise a hand to brush it away, but she found she could not move.

_What is this place? What happened?_

Bales of straw were piled in a corner; farming tools hung from the wooden beams above. She could only just make out the shape of a dirt-encrusted shovel, before the light became too blindingly bright.

_I'm alive._ She took a deep breath. _I'm alive. There's light, so I didn't die in that cave after all. On the other hand - this could be heaven. _

Her vision was still clouded when she opened her eyes again. Red and gold swam in and out of focus - Anarei squeezed her eyes shut, turned her head into the pillow that someone had placed beneath her head. _Don't be ridiculous. Lear got you out of there. You're safe, alive._

Something in her head snapped - _Lear!_

She jerked - or attempted to - as before, her body refused to move. Several long moments passed before she understood why.

The ropes that were coiled around her body and limbs cut into her skin as she strained against them. Panic surged in her chest - she felt herself cry out as she writhed and wriggled, though without much fruition. The air seemed to thicken; it was getting harder to breathe.

_Oh, gods. Oh guardians, this is rope, and this is a bed._

Anarei strained against her bonds again, and felt her cheeks moisten with hot tears. _Did he do this to me? No. No, no, no - he wouldn't, would he? _The only alternative she considered did little to calm her.

_Oh gods, Lear's dead, and someone's got me._

The thought brought a fresh wave of panic with it. She tried to kick her legs out, and, failing, discovered that she'd been firmly bound down - no amount of thrashing would help. Her breaths rose; she hated herself for the panting whimpers that escaped her mouth._ I should scream. Scream and call for help._

The cry died in her throat. She found she had only the strength to sob.

_Lear_.

She jumped - though it manifested more as a another feeble jerk - as the heavy sound of a latch being shifted echoed in the old barn. A deep creak of a wooden door followed, and then the latch shifted again. Whoever came in had locked the door behind them.

Thanking the gods that her breaths had stilled, Anarei listened as boots shuffled over the hay-littered floor of the barn. She wondered if she was about to die - but then a voice called out her.

"Anarei, are you alright?"

She recognised it immediately. Her own response came in a shrill rasp. She wondered if he could hear the fear in her voice. "Lear?"

"Yes; it's me." He sounded relieved as his steps picked up. Lear was within her view in seconds, standing over her. He blocked out the glaring light, and his face was completely shadowed. "We're safe - you're safe. A local found us and fixed the antidote for us... we're staying in his barn until this blows over. Are you feeling alright?"

Anarei felt the surge in her throat again. He was making very little sense to her; her wrists hurt, but it was difficult to stop herself from trying to pull free. So she said his name again, whispered it through gritted teeth while blinking back the dew of tears. "What's happened? What are you _doing _to me?"

It occurred to her then, even as his face - tired, dazed and framed by his limp hair - came into focus, that he could end her there and then if he wanted.

_Maybe it _is_ what he wants. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he really _has _come to finish it. Finish me._

Lear sighed, sounding genuinely exhausted. "Sorry about such... precautionary measures." He nudged a crate closer with his booted foot, and sat down upon it. "We're safe; you were bitten by the spider, and I'd spotted some undeads in there while I was on the way to find you..." He paused, cleared his throat before he went on. "I don't know if it works that way, whatever makes the wounded turn; but I thought it better to be safe than sorry. I _am_ sorry that you have to put up with this, though."

_Oh, guardians. _She let out a breath - it came out like yet another sob. She'd forgotten._ That. He's noticed it too._

In that moment, Anarei wondered if it were possible that the gods had truly forsaken her, after all. She fixed her eyes upon him, struggling against the chill that had settled in; it made her shiver, jostled her limbs and racked them with uncontrollable spasms. She didn't know if she could look any more helpless - any more pathetic, as she met Lear's eyes. Where his gaze was unwavering, she knew her own to mirror only panic and terror.

"So you're..." She choked - her throat was dry, but she had to try again. "Yours is the hand that's going to end my life?" Mira's face flashed in her mind. She forced herself to stare at Lear, instead, blinking hard.

"If need be, Anarei - only if need be." He was quiet, but firm. "It usually takes no more than two days for people to fall into delirium, and about three days for them to turn. You'd been sleeping since we got out two nights ago. If you're showing no sign of being infected - or cursed, poisoned, whatever you want to call it - by this evening, I'd say you're probably fine." He shook his head, then, and rubbed his eyes before he blinked and looked up at her again - he seemed to be exhausted. "'Until then, is there anything you need? Are you thirsty? Hungry?"

The wooden headboard behind her groaned as she slammed her head back against it - once, twice, and then again. In her frustration, Anarei found she could only grunt - she'd bitten the inside of her cheek, and now, she tasted blood. "Why are you doing this to me? Why couldn't you just _leave me be_?"

Lear sighed again, ran both his hands through his dull hair, and sucked in a breath before he responded with what sounded like honest apology, "I cut you." He lowered his eyes. "I hurt you, and I'm sorry. I couldn't leave you to run off like that... I owe you my life, after all."

She saw the glint of silver, and shuddered at the recollection - she'd been close to death._ I'm not that far away from it right now, though, am I?_

"What happened there?"

Lear blinked, held his silence for a moment before he asked, "What happened, where?"

Anarei swallowed, and could not help wincing at the gritty feel of her throat. "Back _then_. What happened when you drew your weapon on me?"

"I hurt you. I'm sorry. I'll try and make sure it won't happen again."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it!"

He looked shocked at her accusation - more than shocked, he seemed _shaken_. His face paled, and what looked like primal fear flashed in his eyes, before he jerked his gaze aside. "...I don't know why I did what I did." He braved a look at her, only to avert his eyes again in shame. "No, no - I think I do. I thought you... were going to hurt me."

She choked on a shuddering breath, and hoped he could hear her. "Have I given off that impression? That I'd _ever _hurt you, Lear? Was that what happened then, or was it - was it something else?"

_Something from your past, perhaps? The one you won't talk about?_

Lear's head hung even lower. "It's not you."

"Tell me?"

He held his silence for a long while - perhaps tens of seconds, perhaps a minute, she lost track of time as she waited. His brows furrowed; he inhaled, puffed up his cheeks, then sucked them in and chewed on them. Something hard - probably the heel of his boot - was scraping against the crate on which he sat.

"Was it the first time you saw a rainbow at dusk?"

_What has that got to do with anything?_

Anarei frowned; the offending lock of hair from before was matted to her cheek with sweat now. She tried to shake it away, but the effort was futile - it only added to her anxious irritation. "I don't know. I can't remember."

"Well, I thought it was a rare enough occurrence." His voice was soft, and almost conversational, but he linked his fingers and clasped his hands together, so tightly that his knuckles whitened. "Apparently not, considering that was the second time I'd seen it in less than three months. It was pretty, wasn't it?"

She watched him for a moment. Her breaths had calmed, but she fancied something in her skipped a beat as she studied his face, took in the words he said. When she spoke up, the gentleness of her voice surprised even her. They were both alone, after all - both frightened, it would seem. "It was."

Muscles twitched in Lear's jaw and neck. He wrung his fingers, then pulled his hands apart to rub his palms together, as though to warm them. "I thought it was pretty the last time I saw it, too." His tone was even, despite the restlessness the rest of his body would suggest. "I thought so, and I wanted my friends to see it, but they were..." He trailed off, and swallowed audibly before he continued, "...Busy. They were busy trying to -"

He cut himself off sharply, lowering his head and pressing his face into his hands - she saw now that they were trembling.

"They were busy?" Anarei repeated, faintly. Somehow, she couldn't see how his tale could possibly end well. _But if I'm going to die, I might as well die knowing._

"I'd come back earlier than I said I would." She had to strain her ears to make out his thick and muffled words. "I couldn't spot my teacher. I found them out the back... trying to -"

He lowered his hands - more accurately, his hands fell limply from his face. It was bloodless.

"- Hide her body."

She had no words. Instead, she simply stared.

Lear's hands gripped his knees as he bit onto his lower lip. Even as Anarei sought his eyes, he did not look up.

She took a deep breath. "Come here."

He shook his head.

"Come here, _please_." Anarei squeezed her eyes shut. She knew it was only a matter of time before the panic took over again. "Please?"

Silently, Lear lowered himself onto his knees, and shuffled up to her old, rickety bed. He lay his hands upon the linty mattress cover, and raised his head until his eyes were just short of meeting her own.

_Was that what you were running from, Lear? Did that lead to our meeting?_

Anarei turned her head fully to the side and gazed at him. Somehow, it was hard to imagine he was the same person she'd met, lifetimes ago.

_He's not that same person, though. And I'm not that same person, neither._

She inched her hand towards him. Bound so tightly, it took some effort - but she managed to brush at his thumb with the tip of her forefinger.

Lear flinched, but did not withdraw his hand. She took that as a good sign; stretching further, she took his trembling hand in her own and clutched it hard - her own grip, she knew, was far from encouraging.

_But I need you, and deep down inside, I think you need me too._

"Stay here with me." She whispered.

His hand gave only a faint jerk. "If that's what you want," he muttered.

Anarei looked him in the eye again, barely noting how wet her pillow had become. "If you have to do it." The words lacked any real strength, spoken in a quavering whisper. She hoped he understood their meaning. "If you have to do it, can you do it quick? And... and bring me home?"

It was not an end she'd ever have wanted to imagine.

"If that's what you want."

* * *

She'd cried for most of the day, after all. Sometime around noon, hysteria had settled in - every little tingle, every involuntary twitch of a finger or toe caused panic and brought about what fits she could throw with her remaining strength. By the end of it all, she was surprised Lear had stayed. Throughout the day, he'd left only to clean up, and to bring food and drink from the adjoining cottage, which she was told belonged to the blind man who'd taken them in. He'd fed her sparingly whilst he'd eaten what little he could; neither of them were very hungry.

For most part, they were silent, only sharing what thoughts they could through passing glances. The longer, lasting moments, in which she'd merely stared into his eyes, usually ended when he looked away.

Still, he'd stayed, and had consented to hold her hand. He held on now, tight as before - or was she doing the bulk of the vice-like gripping?

Anarei couldn't be sure.

When he wasn't preoccupied with holding her hand, Lear had dozed in the barn, sitting with his back against the foot of her bed, but she wondered if he had managed to rest at all.

Yet, his smile was warm as he patted her hand with his free one. "The sun's gone down, now."

There was a pregnant pause as she looked him in the eyes. Relief flooded her senses. The chuckle that escaped her then was both a laugh, and a cry. "The sun's gone down." She could only whisper. _Would this have been Haedrig's face, if Mira hadn't succumbed to the taint?_

Still, she thought, briefly loosening her hold of Lear's hand, it was an unfair comparison. _They were married. We're just... us._

Lear gave his lips another half-hearted quirk, before he lowered himself and began untying the ropes. His movements were deft and practised - there was no straining, no jerking or tugging, and there was little discomfort on her part as he freed her shoulders, tossed the thick rope aside, and started on the ropes coiled about her chest and upper arms.

With part of her bindings removed, Anarei found she still had difficulty breathing. Her heart thumped heavily in her chest, and there was a lump in her throat which she suspected had nothing to do at all with her deliverance from impending danger.

_What is the matter with you, Rei?_

The ropes about her hips loosened. "Take your time in getting up, Anarei." Lear removed the ropes and shifted himself lower to her knees - systematically, dutifully. "You've been lying down for a long time, after all. Let me know if you want help."

She couldn't move. Without the warmth of his, her hand felt strangely empty.

"Lear?"

He was halfway through unknotting the ropes, and jerked his head back with a questioning expression, but seemed to understand her request before long. "Ah, of course."

He took her hand, then, and carefully, gingerly, laid his other hand upon her shoulder. When she did not resist, he slid it over her upper back, and gently helped her to sit up.

Anarei didn't quite understand why her hand trembled, nor why it'd reached to brush his cheek then. She stared at him - he stared back. Again, she found herself speechless.

In her desperation, her thoughts refused to complete themselves. _I want - I want to._

She didn't know what she wanted.

He blinked, evidently confused by her gestures, though a faint blush washed over his cheekbones, and his words came out with the faintest of stutters. "...Do you feel stable enough? I'll get your legs free so you can sit more comfortably."

She found her strength then - just barely enough to straighten that little bit, to press her forehead against his own. He was hurt, and he was lonely and scared - that, she knew, having discovered that little bit of his past.

What she didn't understand was why her body seemed to act without the consent of sense. Her logic had died away, just as quickly as each shallow breath she'd managed to gulp. Her free hand slid over the nape of his neck, and she found herself whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything that's happened to you."

He only blinked a few more times, his grey lashes batting in quick succession. "It's not your fault." His voice was mild as he squeezed her hand. "I'm the one who cut you. You shouldn't have had anything to do with my problems in the -"

She hushed him then - she'd heard those words before. His breaths warmed her face; she wondered if he could feel hers, shallow and uneven, and felt her own cheeks burn. "You came back for me."

He sneered softly and smiled a bitter little smile. "I drove you into danger."

"Shh." Her lower lip trembled. "I'm trying to thank you."

He pulled his gaze aside, then. "There's nothing -"

Exasperated, she straightened - bridged the small gap between his lips and her own, and kissed him. He tasted like oat and honey - was it the bread they'd shared earlier?

He'd stiffened as she'd closed her mouth over his, gasping through his nose thereafter. Yet he offered no other resistance - so she pressed just a little harder, pushed a little deeper. His hair was soft - so soft, where she had the steel-grey tendrils woven about her fingers.

It was even harder to breathe, now.

Eventually, she felt him respond - his body relaxed as he reciprocated. She wondered if he was aware of how desperately she'd clung onto him, and realised the sentiments were only mirrored in his own hold of her. She exhaled deeply, pushed harder.

And then she heard the clattering of keys, and the snap of an opening lock.

She pulled away, and for the first time, laid eyes upon their host. The man blinked - placidly, but there was something unsettling about the way he'd regarded them, with those pallid, unseeing eyes. Lear seemed equally bewildered by his entrance.

"I'm glad you're safe, Miss Anarei." His voice was soft, but knowing - she heard the amusement, but could only turn away in silence.

_Oh, sweet gods in the heavens above. What did I do? What have we done?_

* * *

**Authors' Notes: **

**Oph: **Another chapter, another character, another revelation, oh my!

**Em: **OH ME OH MY INDEED. You'll pardon my rather big response, but I _am _the Queen of Fluff after all. It's my duty. We hope you've enjoyed this chapter, readers! **Nightbreed6**, **heka**, **SlowActingPoison**, y'all have been awesome for the reviews you've been leaving. AWESOME!

**Oph: **I'd like to express my appreciation also for anyone who checked out our deviantART pages and favourited some of our fic-related works. And before I forget, here's the disclaimer: The _Diablo_ franchise belongs to Blizzard. Also if any of you are worried that we seem to be drifting further and further from the canon plot progression, worry not - we're keeping track. We'll address the canonic plot in due time, and tie all the loose ends together while we're at it.

**Em: **Because, and I cannot stress this enough: nobody wants to re-read canon and we've got far too much plottage-stuff anyway. I'm sure y'all are enjoying our kiddies! I HOPE! If you are, please drop us a line (review button below!) and let us know what you're hoping to see, and what your own theories are with regards to our storyline! We love hearing from y'all.

**Oph: **If you're not, though, we hope you'd still be so kind as to give us some con-crit. We serve to please, and while we have our own story to tell, there's always much to learn. Anyway, we hope you've enjoyed the read, and are looking forward to next time! Until then!


	17. Chapter 16: Caught Up

**Chapter 16**

**Caught Up**

* * *

Haekel sat with his back to the small tent, kindling the tiny fire and mulling over the series of events he and his partner had experienced in the past weeks.

No doubt his partner was doing the same, somewhere in the woods.

He wasn't sure how he should feel about them, but he could draw one conclusion nevertheless - _Easy. It was all too easy. _He considered the apparently perfect timing of their arrival in Tristram, the simple intrusion into the house of their informant, and how they'd got exactly what they'd wanted, almost effortlessly.

He pondered over the concept of "what goes around, comes around", and wondered whether they had done something exceptionally good, or if the hound had done something remarkably bad.

After seeing to it that the town was on its way to a slow but sure recovery after the assault they'd interrupted, and that the woman - Leah was her name; _funny coincidence_, he had thought - had laid her uncle to rest, he and his partner had departed from New Tristram. They were not selfless enough to delay their pursuit just to see one town pull through their demon issues - given their profession, altruism would be entirely contradictory. At least the undead situation seemed under control, by the time they'd left. A newcomer who was in Leah's care and known to her only as "the stranger" was still missing, but people went missing every day.

In their effort of finding _their_ missing person, however, they had closed in on him through little trial and minimal error, having found solid evidence that he had gone into the spider-infested caves - blood stains, footprints, remnants of a hurried entrance and an equally hurried escape, the latter leading them to where they were, right now.

Haekel lifted his head and squinted as his eyes adjusted to the quickly-dimming light of dusk. It was hard to miss his partner's distinctive strides, after all - slower than his own, and _way _heavier than they needed to be.

"Honestly, Marclai, you make me wonder how you manage to catch _anything_ at all," he jeered, noting the hare held in his partner's hand.

Marclai narrowed his eyes lazily, but the warning was clear.

Haekel snickered and waved him over. "You know I'm thankful for your going out to find dinner; I was only joking."

His partner sat down beside him and dumped the hare onto his lap. Haekel turned to rummage in his pack for the small, broad skinning knife. He made to prepare their dinner, but was stopped short by the way Marclai stared at the fire, a faint frown upon his brows.

"It'll be a while until we eat; can't be helped." Haekel tried to console him. "We're some way downwind from the blind man's cottage, sure, but the wind's not strong enough tonight to blow away all the smoke from a fire bigger than this."

Marclai's shoulders slumped in grudging acquiescence.

"Patience isn't one of your greatest virtues, is it?" Haekel smiled as he sank his knife into the hare's skin, drawing a ring around its ankles with the blade. "Cheer up; I'm sure they'll leave soon. The Sighthound probably hates his situation more than we hate ours, anyway."

He made a cut across the hare's thighs, set his knife aside and began to peel away at the skin, revealing a good amount of meat. Marclai peered over and smiled in approval. Haekel returned his sentiments with a grin. "It's not too bad out here, see? It'd be more bothersome if we'd crashed into the house and stirred up all kinds of trouble for the poor blind man."

Marclai's smile was somewhere between playful and sardonic.

Haekel nodded. "Yes, of course - how rude we'd be, then." A length of the hare's skin pulled clean off; his grin widened. The act brought him a childish sort of satisfaction.

His partner brought the conversation to a close with a faint chuckle and a sigh. Haekel beamed as he pulled the skin off the hare's front legs, as far as it would go, cut off the paws, and beheaded it.

* * *

The past several minutes had gone by in a blur - Lochi had entered, hurried greetings were exchanged, expressions of concern and relief and gratitude were bandied about, and then Anarei had somehow bumbled out with Lochi's fox. He thought she'd said something about a bath and laundry.

Now that those minutes had passed, Lear found himself sitting on the floor, staring up at the other man - staring into his unseeing eyes that nevertheless expressed his amusement.

"I'm glad your lady-friend's well and awake." Words spoken in a voice far too proper, with far too much decorum to be appropriate for the smile that tugged the corner of his lips. "You're all better also, I presume?"

Lear spluttered and hated the way his face burned. He willed himself to stop blushing, before remembering that Lochi could not see. Such a recall did not make him feel any better. "Mm, yes..." He fumbled with his loose overshirt, pressed lightly on the bandages wound over his chest and side, and winced at the way the oozing pus stuck to the dressings. "Yes, thank you, sir."

Lochi set down the clean linens in his arms. He'd said something about changing Anarei's sheets, earlier -

Earlier, when he and Anarei had been nothing more than traveling companions.

Lochi had obviously sensed his discomfort. He cleared his throat, lowering his hands to his side. There was no threat, no veiled jibe for his personal amusement. "I didn't mean to walk in like that. Sorry - I didn't expect, well. That."

Lear averted his gaze and brushed his hand through his messy hair. He slumped against the old bed, feeling the wooden frame dig into his spine. "Neither did I."

"Oh?"

"It's not something we... do." His face felt more even more feverish than before, and his throat was drying up. "We're just travelling together."

Lochi had schooled his expression into one of careful nonchalance. He tilted his head. "So she's your...?"

"Travelling companion, I suppose." Lear's voice became gruff from impatience. He didn't want to think about this. "She helped me out some months ago and I'm bringing her home. That's all."

"So." Lochi dipped his head, forming some semblance of a nod. Lear wasn't sure he was understanding anything at all. "What I walked in on, was...?"

Lear shrugged, then scolded himself for forgetting the man was blind once again. He sighed heavily. "I don't know."

The blind man raised an eyebrow disapprovingly. Still, he simply shrugged, and after a moment's hesitation, nodded. "Well, I didn't _see _anything, but I'm certain what you were doing doesn't fall under accepted behaviour for mere travelling companions." He added hastily. "Not that it's any of my business, anyway."

"No," Lear growled. "I suppose it isn't."

He cared little about how rude he was; he was in no mood to talk about what had happened. The simple matter of even _thinking_ about it seemed repulsive to him.

Lochi let out a dry sort of 'hmm'. "Except, I did kind of... save your behinds, there. And she's just a young girl, so try not to take advantage of her."

Lear's jaw fell. He lunged forward upon reflex, then regretted it as his burns stung. "Take _advantage_ of her?" His voice was shrill to his ears. "I was only trying to unbind her, and then she... she -"

"Kissed you?" Lochi exhaled, his voice gaining volume with the realisation; then he slumped forward a little - Lear got the impression he was very tired. "Either way, try not to take advantage of her - there's more than one way to do that. Physically, emotionally."

"I'm _not_ trying to take advantage of her!" Lear hated the desperation in his voice, and hoped to the heavens that the anger had masked it sufficiently. "Look, sir... I appreciate that you helped us, but I don't want to have to explain ourselves. If you think we owe you this way, then you're better off asking _her_."

Lochi leaned back against the wooden frame of the door, then sighed and shut his eyes. The calm in his voice was unexpectedly grating. "I know you better than I know her - and you've been at her side all this time. So you'll excuse me if I don't really believe that you're just travelling together." He cleared his throat, brows furrowing slightly. "You don't have to explain yourself to me, neither of you. I just wanted to be sure. She's young, these are dangerous times." Then, he pursed his lips. "And you've proven that you can be quite hostile."

Feeling scrutinised and somewhat exposed, Lear leaned back as far as he could with the bed at his back. "...Sir, if you think I'm a danger to her, what will you do?" A bitter smile crept onto his lips. _Maybe this isn't such a bad alternative. _"Keep her here? Have me leave, and keep her away from me?"

A shadow of that same smile crept up Lochi's lips - bitter, wry. "I _am _blind, you know. How do you propose I keep her here?"

In his mind's eye, the still pool of light,deep blue stirred, surging from far down - an upwelling so subtle it was almost undetectable at the surface. For the umpteenth time since his thoughts had stopped racing, Lear berated himself for missing the man's presence _on the other side of the door_. "Well, if you _really_ think I'm dangerous, you don't have to keep her here, so much as you can get me _out of here_." He considered his speculations, and thought them certain enough to voice. "You can command the winds and the trees to toss me far, far away, can't you?"

The smile grew wider. He was right, then. "That's for you to find out. Are you going to tell me, then?"

Lear gritted his teeth - he hated feeling so powerless and uncertain, but these were becoming increasingly familiar feelings, as of late. "What do you want from me, sir?"

"The truth, for one." Lochi pursed his lips. His voice had taken on a sterner quality. "You don't seem like the sort of adventurers who'd go poking around dark and dangerous caves. That said, I'd also really appreciate for the both of you to make it to wherever you're headed in one piece, so none of it comes back to me. I trust you realise it could get troublesome if I'm the last person who's dealt with you, alive."

_The truth. Always the truth. Demanding, these people, aren't they? _

"We're headed north - to the home of the Barbarian tribes. That's _her_ home." Lear hugged one leg against the side of his chest that wasn't sore. "She's been... caught up in a bit of my trouble, so I want her to be home, safe and sound, before I go and settle that."

For a moment, he wondered if Lochi would ask about his trouble - but he merely opened those unseeing, unfocused eyes. It took him a moment to respond, "Alright, then. I suppose it goes without saying that you're not planning a dangerous route?"

"The path of least resistance, sir," Lear replied easily. "I just want to get her home as soon as I can."

Lochi's lip twitched. He wore a somewhat wry expression. "Are you planning on telling her you don't like her that way, then?"

Lear jumped again, and once more his burns protested. "Why would she _think_ that? _She_ doesn't even like _me_ that way!"

Lochi raised a brow.

"...What?" Lear was getting irritated by this. He got the impression that the man was judging his every word.

"You just said, she kissed you." Lochi sounded unimpressed.

"So?" He wasn't sure if he should feel confused or frustrated. "She was lonely and scared, and then she realised she was safe after all. She was relieved, so she... I don't know, wanted to show her gratitude for the situation?" He squeezed his eyes shut - thinking was becoming exhausting. "She doesn't like me."

"If that's what you think," Lochi remarked, after a moment. He pushed himself off the door, straightened. "Then I suppose you must be right. Pardon my intrusion."

Lear didn't know what to do with himself. From the dryness of Lochi's tone, it was obvious that as much as the man had irritated him, he had been likewise irritating to his host. He hugged his leg closer, tried to hug his other leg as well, and managed a half-hearted mumble. "I'm sorry for imposing upon you."

The man drew in a breath, held it, then let it out in a quick exhale. Now that he had straightened, the light from the candles in their holder, set upon the wall, brightened his face - his frown was all the more evident for it.

Lear thought he had more to say. Instead, Lochi simply shrugged. "Don't mention it."

* * *

"They've caught up."

Anarei blinked at her companion. The sun was bright in the sky directly above them, and after spending so many days indoors, she found it blinding. It only added to the disorientated sensation she was experiencing. "What?"

"I first sighted them yesterday." Lear's tone was mild and even, though he seemed on edge - as he walked, he kept glancing about, perking up at faint sounds in the canopy and little movements in the shrubs. "They could've been there earlier; I wouldn't discount the possibility of my just _missing _them before."

Despite his words, she smiled - then bit it back. "Wouldn't be the only thing you've missed recently." She cleared her throat, then shook her head, tossing her hair back. In the green woods surrounding their host's home, it was impossible to see the hidden.

_Unless you're Lear, apparently._

Anarei wrinkled her nose, and tried for carefree movements - she reached back and bunned up her hair. Careful to keep her voice low, she muttered. "So they're here for you? Your capture?" She swallowed. "Or is it your head they're after?"

He shook his head sharply - the movement was more like an impatient jerk. "I don't know, but I think... if they'd simply wanted my life, they'd have done _something_ by now. Honestly... I don't know." He waved her over. "Stay closer."

She let out a sigh, then ambled to his side. Part of her wanted to run - the other part wondered at the legitimacy of his claims. Try as she might, as hard as she strained her eyes to look about, she could see nothing out of the ordinary. Birds amongst branches, squirrels hoarding nuts.

All things considered, it could very well be a beautiful day.

But Anarei knew better._ It was a beautiful day too, that day - and then he cut me, we almost died, and now we're... what?_

She didn't know. Her hand brushed his as they walked - she pulled away hastily, and felt her cheeks burn. Her lips, too - but with the memory of his own. She cleared her throat, shook off the thought. "When are we expecting company?"

"I don't know." He lowered his voice - as though his assailants were but a few feet away, taking note of his every word. "I can tell you, though, that there are two of them. I don't know if they've set any traps - I can't see them if they're purely mechanical, so keep an eye out. Otherwise, just walk on; I don't want them to know I've noticed them."

She looked down. In the leaf-littered ground, hidden traps would remain hidden. "It's okay." She muttered. "If they were around while we were at Lochi's, it's possible that we just look like two stupid teenagers discussing an insipid romance."

With his face turned away, Lear stiffened and fell into silence. She wondered if he was cooking up some way to avoid the conversation; then he found his voice again, and she found she was right. "It was nice of him to take us in, wasn't it? I feel bad that we couldn't repay him better."

It stung.

"I think he was glad enough that we got out of his hair as quickly as we could." Anarei bowed her head. She hoped Lear wouldn't notice the change in her tone - but it was jarring.

_I guess we're just going to forget it happened._

Lear turned back forward and dipped his head, now scanning the forest floor. She stole a brief glance at him, and fancied that she might have noticed a faint shade of pink dusted over his cheeks.

She bit her lip, chiding herself inwardly. _He may, or may not be thinking what you thought - but it's definitely a bad time._

"He'll be f-"

"This is a joke." He cut her off.

Anarei frowned, recoiled - the tone of Lear's voice felt like a slap to the face. Confusion, intermingled with a slight sensation she identified as irritation at his abruptness. "What's a joke?"

_What, the fact that we kissed is a joke?_

"This trap." Lear dug the toe of his boot into the damp, soft leaf litter; she could hear the hint of incredulity in his soft tone. He lifted his head and squinted into the canopy. "It's so bad, I'm not sure what I should think of it."

_Oh. Okay, stop overreacting, Rei. You're being an idiot._ Anarei gritted her teeth, narrowed her eyes - she could see it too, the glint cutting across the ray of sunshine that filtered through the canopy, a hard, taut line against the slow drift of dust and vapour illuminated by the light.

"Just make sure you don't overthink so much that you _do_ end up tripping over it." Her voice came out a low grumble.

"I think... _that_ would be the better trap, wouldn't it?" A dark little smirk curled Lear's lips. "Perhaps this is just a decoy? A distraction?"

She thought it was a possibility, and opened her mouth to say so - but then her voice died in her throat as Lear blatantly _kicked _at the wire.

The shout of panic was swallowed as an arm tightened about her waist. Her vision blurred; with it came a nauseating wave of vertigo. She felt a violent shove, and then she was falling and rolling on the ground as the air trembled with the heavy sound of a metallic _clang_.

When her vision cleared, she saw the ends of a dozen long, thick bolts; they were sticking out of the ground where she and Lear had been standing just a moment ago. Panicked, she rolled to her feet, and barely contained the gasp of surprise that surfaced.

They had come.

Lear had his knives drawn. He stood facing a man - tall, pale-eyed and dark-haired, his solid musculature unobscured by his coat. His broad shoulders were relaxed even as he shifted the bardiche in his hands - its blade was easily as long as her own arm.

She had no words. Instead, she reached for her swords, grasping the hilts that hung by her hips.

Lear spared a glance at her then; she didn't quite understand the anxiety in his eyes, until she heard the voice sound right beside her ear.

"Our condolences, milady."

Her hand tightened about the hilt of her sword - instinct guided its movement, from the swift draw of the blade to the turn of her body as she recoiled. The male voice behind her grunted with surprise as the pommel of her blade connected with the solid flesh of his abdomen.

Her assailant's recovery was surprisingly swift, however, as his left hand flew to the scabbard upon the left side of his hip. _Stop him from drawing._ She thrust her sword forward to his right hand - then cried out as her heavy strike was unexpectedly fluidly deflected; the man had drawn with his _left_ hand, instead.

"Marclai, don't give me that look," he complained, only slightly winded as his parry threw her off-balance. In an instant, he was at her back again - this time with his arm wrapped around her chest, and his blade at her throat. "I got this."

She struggled, but the cold steel drained the strength from her limbs. Barely able to scream, or even to breathe, Anarei threw a look towards Lear.

Lear was rather more preoccupied with staring down the tall man before him, however - and the great blade that looked as though it could cleave Lear's head clean in half should its wielder only loosen his hold. When he finally spoke, his tone was surprisingly controlled. "You two want _me_, right? Let the woman go, then."

"She's armed, and if our informant was right, you two are rather... attached to one another." The man at Anarei's back let out a remorseful sigh; his breath ruffled her curls, making them tickle her cheek. "It's bad enough having to deal with a rabid dog, let alone the one holding his leash."

She let out a shaky breath, gritting her teeth - in an attempt to grab at the hand holding the blade to her throat, she'd dropped her sword. Still, she mustered the strength to rasp, "Threatened dogs bite back."

"That's why we have one to hold him down and one to muzzle him, my dear." The metal pressed just a touch harder into her neck, and his fingers dug deeper into her side. "Sighthound, why don't we all save each other some trouble? Just come with us, and there's no need for anyone to get hurt."

Perhaps Lear had gotten the same impression as she had - that the taller man would not act unless the smaller man gave his approval. He shifted his attention, then, and met Anarei's eyes.

She saw the apology and guilt in his gaze, but there was a sneer in his tone as he spoke up, "There's two of you, and one of me. Are you really flattering me so by thinking you'd need a hostage, too?"

"You can never be too careful - I thought you of all people would know this." She could hear the smile in the man's words, then he chuckled. "Besides, it makes life easier for us."

_They want Lear. They're here for Lear, and they won't leave without him._

Try as she might, Anarei found she could not imagine a good ending to their day.

_I can't let them take him._

She knew her hands were shaking - and they shook as she struggled against the man who held her. Still, she lifted her foot, and stamped it back down as hard as she could.

The heel of her boot met with soft, decaying leaves and dirt, and the man's arm around her tightened in an instant - he was practically hugging her against his chest, now. He pressed his head against hers, and she felt it shake. "Uh-uh." His hand trailed down her side and groped at her waist. She thought her yelp sounded like a whimper - but then he spoke, and made sure she listened. "I'd _really_ hate to hurt a lovely young lady such as yourself, little miss."

There was a burning pit in the depth of her stomach. _Oh, heavens - they mean it. They mean business._

She gripped the man's hand, spared a moment to wonder if he even felt her fingernails digging into his skin. "What - what do you want from _me_?"

"We just need you to be a good girl - hand over the leash, and stay out of the way." The smile in his voice was still there, but his words were hard, cold - like the metal at her throat.

She hated the way he made her gasp, and hated how close he stood, how close he held her. Most of all, Anarei realised, she hated the way he made her mad.

She wanted to hurt him. But she couldn't - and so she snarled. "You said we're attached. How likely am I to take your proposition if that's the case?"

To Anarei's shock, it was Lear's voice that interjected this time. "Stay out of the way." She turned to him, and sure enough, he was addressing her - his eyes were narrowed and his voice was firm. "She'll stay out of the way." He adjusted his grips upon his weapons, and tapped his toe briefly upon the ground. "As for you, gentlemen... I'm not going to just roll over and give in."

The taller man - Marclai, stiffened and brought his bardiche a little lower; but once again, it was his companion who spoke. "We didn't think you were a good dog, to begin with." He nuzzled against her, his voice silken. "So? Will you listen to your boyfriend and be a good girl?"

Her skin was crawling. She looked over to Lear just as he growled. "Get your hands off of her." He snarled. "She _will_ stay out of our way. Come fight me if you want me, you _cowards_."

She wondered if he'd managed to catch a glimpse of her eyes - wondered if he'd caught her meaning, the words she didn't have the time to say.

_Don't die. Not here, not now, not by their hands._

The man at her back seemed unmoved by Lear's words. "_Will_ she, though?" He lowered his voice and purred into her ear. "Will you?"

Anarei jerked one last time, and failing to break free, accepted her defeat. Her hands fell limp to her side, fists clenched - she wanted to scream.

Instead, she was silent.

"It'd be a pity to mess up an innocent pretty girl, but if you try anything funny, we'll end you, okay?" He lowered her voice, murmuring into her ear, "It's a pity I have to be so rude to you. My name's Haekel, Miss Anarei. I apologise, and do so as well for my partner, Marclai. Forgive us, milady."

_Oh gods. He knows my name._

He kissed her temple, and released her. She considered picking up her sword, but decided it would count against her. Her mouth had gone dry, and the hilt of her undrawn sword was cold where her thumb barely brushed it.

_Not here. Not now._

She watched Haekel as the man walked towards the other two, sweeping back his straight, golden-blond hair with his free hand. She watched him, held her breath, and waited for the battle to begin.

It began suddenly, unexpectedly, with an attack from Marclai. A simple downward strike of the bardiche, the broad blade slicing swiftly through the air. Lear merely side-stepped that, before Haekel interjected; Lear deflected the short sword with one of his knives. A sound signaled another collision between metals - one that Anarei missed, only catching a glimpse of its aftermath, with Lear's foot barely lifted from the ground, and the other two men readjusting their holds on their weapons.

Within an instant they moved again. The bardiche swept through the air. Lear kicked, deflected the blow with the side of his boot. Haekel filled in before Lear could find his footing, allowing Marclai to recover faster, and to deliver another blow. Lear dodged the bardiche, but the short sword scraped past him, scratching the leather of his belt.

Anarei took a step forward, hearing the panic in her voice as she cried out. Not one of them reacted.

_They're in it to kill? Did they forget about me?_

She inched towards her sword, felt the bump of the blade against her boot.

Her eyes were locked upon the scene - Lear was obviously focusing on Marclai, directing most of his attacks towards the taller man. However, Haekel's interruptions and interjections made it impossible for Lear to land a substantial hit. The way the smaller man provided support for his partner was seamless.

She watched as Lear seemed to decide on the other option. He spun on his heel and landed a solid kick into the handle of Marclai's bardiche. At the same time, he brought the knife in his right hand down on Haekel.

Haekel parried the attack without hesitation, and Lear's left hand swept in from another angle, making to cut from the side.

In response, Haekel brought his sword across his front; his right hand came up and tugged on something in the hilt of the sword. The single slender blade sprang open into three prongs, and caught the delicate knife between them.

Lear let out a gasp; Haekel grinned, and flexed his wrist. The prongs ground shrilly against the knife - it was as though the weapon was squealing under the strain.

Lear stumbled, and pulled back in a hurry to save his knife, just as Marclai brought the bardiche straight down over his head. Lear twisted his body and dropped to the ground; he seemed to vanish from sight for an instant - only to reappear some ten yards away, crouching and panting, his clothes covered in dirt and rotting leaves.

_To the hells with this! _Anarei bent, snatched up her sword, and darted to Lear. Her mind was screaming - the same scream burst forth from her throat.

A red patch was quickly spreading over Lear's right shoulder. He'd dropped the right blade, and was sheathing it with the opposite hand. She heard Haekel yell, but all she saw was Lear - the wound that blossomed so fast, so close to his neck, and so deep.

_It can't be just a flesh wound - gods, it's worse than that. Not the arm, not the important joints._

Anarei heard herself pant as her hand closed in on Lear's uninjured shoulder. He stared at her, then scowled through the pain, the beads of sweat upon his brow accentuating the cold fury in his gaze. She blinked hard, then snarled through her teeth, "You can't get mad at me for caring."

"Stay out of this," Lear growled. "In case you haven't noticed, you're _right_ between me and them. You're _in my way_."

"There's only one of you." Anarei clenched her fist over Lear's shoulder. She could hear footsteps behind her, but she kept her eyes affixed upon Lear's - his words had stung, and they had hurt; still, she persisted. "You really think they'll just let me go after they lop your head off? Let me help you live, Lear, _please_."

To her surprise, Lear managed a smile - with his eyes, anyway; the curve of his lips resembled a grimace. "Well, you bought me thinking time, so that's enough help already."

Anarei blinked. "Wh-"

A cold, hard line bore down against her back. Anarei wondered if Lear's blood had seeped into her clothes from the bardiche, and held her breath. "Miss Anarei, you said you'd behave." Haekel's voice was no longer smooth; despite its evenness, the warning was clear in its maliciousness. "If we can't trust you, we'll have to take precautionary measures."

"I didn't _say _I would behave." She hated the way her voice cracked. Her hand trembled where it lay upon Lear's shoulder, still - then she withdrew it and turned to face Haekel. Marclai's weapon pressed down on her more forcefully, stopping her from moving further. Her threat refused to materialise in her voice; she could only scowl.

"Anarei, I don't need your help. I'm fine." Lear shoulder shifted beneath her hand to shake it away, and he climbed to his feet - she did not miss the droplets of blood that hit the ground in the process.

She bit back the panicked whimper in her throat, and forced herself to glower - though Anarei doubted it came off as menacing as she'd have liked. "You're monsters," she whispered. "Two against one, you're cowardly monsters."

"Honour isn't exactly one of our order's tenets." Haekel's voice became almost conversational as he deigned to smile. "Besides, this is only an assignme-"

Lear cut his words short - he lashed out and kicked the handle of the bardiche upwards, lifting the blade off Anarei's back. Quickly lowering himself, he crouched down and tackled Anarei aside, ramming roughly into her. She thought she heard a crack, and wondered how he managed, in such a small time window and such confined space, to find the momentum to propel them both out of the men's reaches.

Then she heard the _thump_, the muffled grunt, and Haekel shouting, "You rotten bastard!"

Marclai was curled up on the ground, clutching his leg.

Lear had kicked her, and himself, _off of the man's leg. _

She gasped and tried to roll away as the Haekel's hurried footsteps reached her, but Lear was holding her down. Instinct told her to strain, to fight and to bolt, but then Lear shifted.

She saw the gush of blood from his shoulder wound as he reached out with his right hand - towards Haekel's outstretched pronged sword, which was in turn pointed towards the wound in his shoulder.

Metal met flesh; one of the prongs pierced Lear's right forearm, and the tip of the sword cut a long gash from wrist to elbow.

Lear cried out, but nevertheless managed to fasten a grip over Haekel's wrist. His left hand, still holding his knife, slashed over the other man's wrist. Haekel lost the grip on his weapon immediately, and backed away as Lear's grip loosened, holding his limp hand and pressing over the gash in his wrist.

He looked up at Lear with a mixture of shock, hurt and fear and fury. Lear merely grunted as he sheathed his weapon, turned on his heels and walked off into the woods in the wake of a string of profanities, holding onto the sword still hanging off his arm.

Flat upon the ground, Anarei stared. She looked towards Marclai first, the man who lay on his side not too far away - his face was tucked away into the body that was curled up in pain. Haekel, on the other hand, wore both pain and anger upon his face.

Anarei scrabbled to her feet. Panting, she backed away, bewildered and frantic, grabbed at her pack, which she'd dropped. Thoughts raced in her head.

_Lear's hurt. He's hurt, and so are they. What do I do, what do I do?_

Haekel was still yelling curses at Lear, despite his target having disappeared from view. "You dirty traitor! Run all you like; I hope you die like the _dog_ you are!"

Something snapped in her. Suddenly angry, she started towards Haekel, and without knowing why, fisted her right hand, threw her weight into it, and punched him across the face. He stumbled and landed with a thud, stunned silence following after.

She shrieked, "Shut the hells up, you ass!"

"Why are _you_ still here?" He snarled, even as a trickle of blood ran from his cut and quickly-swelling lower lip. The gash in his wrist was gushing, and he pressed his good hand over it. "Why don't you run after him?"

Anarei hissed, noted that it was a weak attempt at hushing him, and settled for a wave of her hand. "What did I say? Shut up, I'm trying to think."

_Lear's hurt, but so are these two. We're out in the middle of nowhere - if I leave them, they could get worse before they manage to find help._

She sheathed her sword, wincing at the loudness of the metallic grating. Her anger had abated somewhat - her knuckles hurt.

_It was worth it. But that's that._

Lifting her gaze, she looked towards the direction of Lear's exit. His meaning could not have been any clearer to her - he was licking his wounds, and would do so with or without her. Still, she knew he was fully aware that she would follow.

Eventually, anyway.

She scowled at Haekel as she knelt by his side. "You'd better have potions on you, because I'm not wasting any of ours on your sorry behinds."

Haekel stared at her sheepishly, somewhat dazed, as he sat up straighter; soon he averted his gaze and reached behind his belt with his good hand, pulling out two vials from a pack there. He held them out to Anarei wordlessly, his bloody lip puckered in indignation.

"I can't work with bones the way some healers can, so your partner's just going to have to cope with bandages and strapping." She took the blood-stained vials, uncorked one, and held it back. "You, too. I don't have time to stitch you up, neither, and reconnect all those bloody tendons. Drink."

_Strahan probably could fix the big guy up - but at the rate we're going, it's probably for the best they aren't in tip-top condition. Lear's going to need a lot of work, too._

Haekel drained the vial without complaint, and seemed heartened as the wound on his wrist ceased to gush with every pulse. He sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat, before he turned towards his partner.

"Go help him," he muttered; then he cleared his throat softly, and added more earnestly, "Please."

Anarei slanted her gaze aside towards Marclai, grunting irritably. She dug in her pack, found one half-used roll of bandages, and tossed it to Haekel. "Stop your bleeding."

Marclai's pant leg was soaked in a mixture of blood, gore and dirt. Broken bones punctured the flesh and skin, ripping through the fabric of his pants. She winced as she knelt and reached out - for some reason, she was more inclined to be gentle with him.

"Can you hear me?" She muttered.

The man uncurled a touch, and craned his head up to look Anarei in the eye. His expression was stoic save for the deep frown upon his sweat-dampened brows, but his grey eyes were soft - pleading.

Anarei sighed heavily, and for the moment, decided to comfort. She glanced around, her gaze finally resting upon his pants. "I'm sorry." The pair of silver scissors she kept with her needles cut through his pant-legs quickly - she searched, and was relieved to find a patch unstained with blood. Rolling it up, she held it to the man's mouth. "I'm sorry. It's going to hurt."

Marclai's eyes were mild as his eyelids drooped. He accepted the gag, leaning forward to take it directly from her hand into his mouth, and closed his eyes as he let his head drop back onto the ground.

She thought she heard him groan as she lifted his leg and elevated it over a small rock. Now that she had cut away his pants, she saw the extent of his injury: the two bones of his lower leg were broken, their jagged edges protruding from his bloodstained calf.

_Clean the wound so you can see better, and so the leg doesn't rot and fall off. _

She wished Strahan were there - and once again, berated herself for it. As she worked in silence, cleaning the wound and picking at bits of shattered bone, she wondered if she hadn't been over-confident in her own abilities after all.

_Out in the world and doing my own healing - and all I want is da and my big brother._

The thought made her scoff aloud. Marclai squinted one eye open and gave her a questioning look. She tried for a wry smile, and barely managed. "You never realise you'll need help, until you're thrown out on your own. That's all." She straightened, lowered her hands. "I'm going to put them back into place and try to wrap it up with a splint."

He nodded stiffly.

She swallowed. "Got a scabbard?"

* * *

It was over - well, this particular one was over. Lear could hardly believe it.

_How many more of this can you survive? _

His mind's eye saw that Anarei had stayed to tend to the two younger men. He couldn't keep it up for very long, though - the pain was distracting, and he was feeling cold and dizzy. The scarf he wound around his arm slowed the bleeding, but his effort could not staunch it altogether.

It wasn't too long before he heard Anarei's approach; she was weary-faced, with her shoulders slumped. She made towards him, wordlessly pulling linked vials of potion from her pack. When she had come right up to him, she sat down by his side, looked him in the eyes.

Lear saw the sadness then.

"Are you alright?" He asked. He wasn't sure if he spoke loudly enough, but his own voice echoed in his head.

She shook her head, her eyes flickering down to his shoulder. Her voice was hushed. "_You're_ not."

He tried for a smile. "But I guess that's a win, right?"

She gave him that look again, but after a while, shook her head once more and dug into her pack. Her hands withdrew clean washcloths and a vial of clear liquid; she set those on her lap, then looked up at him, her voice low. "I have to take your shirt off."

Something stirred in the back of Lear's mind that he deemed were immature thoughts that failed to realise themselves in his current condition, and he simply nodded his assent.

Anarei seemed to have noted much the same; her cheeks flushed a touch, but she made to help him, regardless. She unwound his scarf - now more red than white - from his arm and peeled off his blood-soaked sleeve, taking care where the short sword still pierced his arm. Her face changed when she looked at his shoulder - worry, coupled with a terseness that showed her disapproval as she began to clean it off.

"How long are you going to keep this up?" She murmured after a while. "How long will you _have _to?"

"I'll settle it once you're safely home." He muttered, his voice strained as his wound burned, and closed his eyes, leaning against the moss-covered boulder at his back.

Anarei didn't sound particularly comforted by his choice of words. "They would have killed you. Could have."

"Didn't," Lear affirmed pointedly.

"_This_ time," she responded instantly, and as she did, he felt the burning sensation of potion in his open wound.

The pressure she placed by his neck told him she was trying, at least, to offer some semblance of comfort - though all things considered, it didn't help much.

"I'm sorry," She muttered. He wasn't sure if he'd cried out. "I don't have anything on me that can make it hurt less, so you'll have to bear with this."

"My gods, Anarei..." He gasped, and couldn't stop the tears of pain from welling up behind his closed eyelids. He tried to stop them from escaping. "Can't I just _drink_?"

"Your lifespan." Anarei's answer came out harsher than before, though she reached to take his hand in her free one. Some of the potion trickled over his torso, running over the healing acid burns on his left side and causing them to sting. He gasped, and the potion paused in its dribbling into his shoulder wound. Anarei's voice was full of concern. "The spider, she did that to you...?"

He grunted noncommittally. The burns had itched and ached, but thankfully not badly enough to interrupt his recent fight.

She was quiet for a long moment, and he felt her hand tighten about his own. Her voice quavered. "Lear, we've been in real, mortal peril together for more times than I can count now. Can't we be honest with one another?"

Even to his failing ears, the strained desperation could not have been clearer in her tone.

_Isn't it precisely because of that, that you _can't_ be honest with her? _

In his disorientated state, Lear didn't quite understand what that meant, or what Anarei was trying to say. "What?"

He thought he heard a faint scoff, and was unsure whether it reeked more strongly of exasperation or hurt. After a while, she pulled her hand from his. "Who am I to you, Lear?"

Thinking was exhausting and almost painful now. "I don't know," he tried to say, but it came out as an incoherent mumble. He wondered if any satisfactory answer would come out of him in his current condition, and felt the frustration bubble in his stomach.

_Why do you ask me these things, Anarei? Why _now_?_

The potion resumed its steady trickling. He hissed, but she merely continued in her work. After a while, the sensation of searing heat faded, leaving behind a dully-throbbing prickle, uncomfortably hot upon what felt like skin scratched raw.

Anarei spoke quietly, calmly, "We're not friends, are we?"

Lear could no longer muster up the energy to respond to such questions. He doubted he even had the strength to think properly - now that the thrill of the battle had worn out, his head was aching, his fingers and toes were cold and numb, and he was terribly thirsty. He was also finding it difficult to listen to and comprehend Anarei's words, while being painfully aware of the metal in his arm.

"For all that we've been through, we might as well be strangers, you know." There it was again - solemn, just a touch sad. Still, she took his hand, laying it gently upon her lap. He felt the pressure she placed upon his elbow, her warm hand circling the joint to hold it down. "I'm sorry - you'll feel some pain from this, but I'll fix you up after. Okay?"

Hoping that she'd given up on interrogating him, Lear permitted himself a moment of blessed relief, and allowed his body to relax. He wanted to sleep - not a long one, just a little nap. He was tired, so tired -

The sharp pain shot through his arm, like a flash of lightning - he would have jumped, if she had not been holding him down. Her voice was low, words said through gritted teeth, "Easy now, easy. I'm getting it out, don't thrash."

He cried out despite himself, and a voice chided him, led him to wonder what the two younger men would think if they'd heard. He did not care.

"It's okay, now. It's okay." Reassuring words, spoken with a soft, yet firm cadence. He felt her close in against his side. "It's okay, it's out."

The pain eased. The sword fell, hitting the ground with a barely-audible _thump_. Anarei's hands soothed and seared in turn - the potion was at work once more, the well-measured pace allowing for his flesh to mend itself slowly.

She stopped short after a while. His arm felt wet and sticky - the wounds were not yet closed. Her voice grew faint, touched with guilt. "We're almost out of potion. I'll have to stitch this up, so we'll have some to spare? Just in case?"

Lear made an attempt to shrug, and the sensation of delicate sinew being ripped and torn within his shoulder wound drew a wince from him. Suddenly feeling drained, he let out a sigh - a long, resigned thing. "Mngh."

Anarei worked in silence then. Only several moments passed before he felt the delicate movements, gentle flicks of the hand that were accompanied by the twinges of his flesh as she wove her curved needle through muscle and skin, pulling and tying. When, at last, she'd spread over a layer of cool cream over the wounds, wrapping the limb firmly beneath thick lengths of bandages, he released a breath that he hadn't realised he was holding. In contrast, she was completely quiet.

He heard the sounds of her packing, the soft click of the glass needle-case he'd seen one too many times, the snap of the clip she used to hold her bandages in their rolls, and the jostling of vials within her pack. Then, a rustling arose, before warmth enveloped him; her arms closed gently, and somewhat gingerly at first, about his shoulders.

She drew him close, allowed his head to rest upon her shoulder. When she spoke again, her voice told him only of her resignation. "You can rest. I'll keep watch, so just rest."

Her warmth was pleasant, and made him feel better.

Lear tried to voice his gratitude; he wasn't sure if he'd managed, before he drifted into a much-welcomed sleep in her arms.

* * *

**Authors' Notes: **

**Em: **Woot, chapter! Things are finally getting juicy, and we hope you've found this chapter plenty meaty to sink your teeth into! (As in, we hope you've enjoyed it!)

**Oph: **Action and drama and well, some form of fluff. We hope the wait was worth it! We've both been pretty busy, but here's a belated wish for everyone having a great Easter! And while I'm here, I'm going to shamelessly advertise two of my drawings for some past chapters. For the last chapter's pre-kiss moment, check out fav. me/ d5x8ah3, without the spaces. And for Lear's freaked-out face, look here at fav. me/ d5xbiua!

**Em: **And remember, while we're spazzing out over Oph's highly original pieces, that WE DO NOT OWN DIABLO. We do, however, own Lear, Rei, and all other characters that don't appear in canon.

**Oph: **Thank you all for reading and keeping us going with your lovely words! Much loves goes out to **SlowActingPoison**, a certain **Guest**, and our most loyal patrons, **Heka** and **Nightbreed6**! If you're lurking about, please do drop us a word, or a line... or even a request for a doodle! We'll try our best!

**Em: **Indeed! You've all heard this before, but we can't tell you guys enough, how much your reviews give us fuel for writing! We're grateful for it, and we look forward to hearing what y'all think about this chapter! Until next time - cheers!


	18. Chapter 17: Fate and Happenstance

**Chapter 17**

**Fate and Happenstance**

* * *

There was a low, steady crackle, and then a soft pop - then a dull thump, as the dying embers of their fire hit earth. Unsuspecting, Anarei stiffened with a faint gasp. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, she sighed, running her fingers over her forehead and through her curls, sweeping the bangs from her eyes.

The treetops had begun to brighten with the early dawn, signalling the end to her night-long vigil. Somewhere in the makeshift shelter she'd set up the previous evening, she knew Lear was sleeping. He'd packed the thick canvas, along with several lengths of sturdy rope.

She understood his tendencies to overpack, now. She was even grateful for it.

In the palm of her hand, she held two little pendants, knotted together with lengths of coal-black ties. They were light, yet so very heavy, so burdensome. She turned them over, the tiny pendants of burnished steel - they were likely forged from some useless weapon or another. They were warm in her hand.

_Lear's raindrops._

She frowned, slumped forward and shut her eyes. The boys' faces when she had raced to them after Lear had fallen asleep registered only shock and confusion, as if they'd been worried she'd come to her senses, come to finish what Lear had started.

The shock did not ease when she'd returned Haekel's sword. He'd glowered at her, though she'd wondered then if he'd even meant it. He certainly didn't look as vengeful as she'd expected.

"We can't lie for you, and we sure as hell aren't lying to save _his_ behind."

She'd pursed her lips. "I don't suppose your order knows the specifics of what happened?"

Haekel had shrugged and tried for more menace in his voice. "I don't know if _they_ know, but _we_ aren't _meant _to know - he was only our assignment, after all." He'd grumbled under his breath as he clumsily clicked the prongs of his sword back into place. "We had to clean out his base, though... that place was a bit of an infernal mess by the time we got there."

She recalled an intense urge to kick him, and in that moment, would have if he hadn't otherwise looked so pathetic. "He's a _person_. Not an assignment. Will my telling you what I know change your mind about what to report?"

"Not exactly." He'd rolled his eyes, before lowering them and breaking eye-contact with her. "All I'm going to report are the _facts_. Whatever you want to believe about him has no place in what I'm going to relay back to the order."

Her voice had cracked, then. "How long until the next?"

"I don't know, and even if I did, it's not my place to tell you."

She'd only nodded. In truth, Anarei hadn't expected they would divulge any information, but it didn't hurt to try.

When Haekel had spoken again, his voice was different - sterner, more solemn, as he dug into his coat. "Well, I appreciate your returning my weapon to me." He'd held out the pendants, petulantly, doggedly looking away from her. "So here's a bit of a trade. They're his - we found them wedged behind his bedside table when we were cleaning out the place."

The pendants themselves were bruised by age, the steel tainted. Anarei turned them over in her hand again, knotting the braided strings about her fingers before holding them up. As they tumbled from her palm to hang from her hold, she found herself wondering who they had been made for.

Who Lear had lost.

_Raindrops. Tears shed by the heavens for the fallen, received by the families left behind. Who did you lose, Lear? Was that how you fell into this hole, this circle of vicious people? Did you lose someone you loved, cared for?_

She straightened from her slump and wrapped her fist about the pendants. The bark of the tree she sat against was hard and rough against the back of her head. The grogginess that usually accompanied a lack of sleep had begun to settle in. She wished she had hot tea.

_Maybe when he wakes up, we can brave a visit to a village or something. We both need something hot._ Anarei exhaled deeply. _And I still need to give these back to him._

She wasn't looking forward to it. He'd confused her more than enough with recent events. The coming encounter, she knew, would only sting her more - if only because she knew she had no place in what his past had held. In what it had done to shape him.

Her reverie was broken by the sounds of clothes rustling against leaf litter, the heavy canvas drape crumpling, and low, muffled grunts. When Anarei looked back, Lear was partway through tumbling out of the makeshift shelter, looking almost comically disorientated.

She couldn't help smiling, though she doubted the smile held any charm at all. Her voice was hoarse, she knew. "Hey. How're you feeling?"

Lear was pale, and he seemed to be having trouble focusing - his gaze wavered as he turned to her. "Where's this?" His voice was more breathless than usual. He attempted to free himself from the canvas and get his knees under him, but winced as he put his weight onto his right arm and collapsed again. "They left?"

Anarei got to her feet and made quickly towards him, sliding his pendants into the pouch that hung by her waist as she went. His skin was clammy and cold where she grabbed onto his hands. "We're safe, don't worry. They're gone. Come on, up you go."

His hands tightened about hers - the action drew another grunt from him, but he managed to straighten into a seat, and stared at the ground, dazed, for a long moment. When he finally lifted his head, his focus was entirely upon her. "...You're up early."

She shrugged carelessly, then lowered herself close by him, withdrawing her hands gently. "I couldn't sleep. You didn't answer my question - how're you feeling?"

Lear seemed to consider her question for a few seconds, then he blinked a few times, and hugged his knees to his chest where he sat. "I'm not so tired anymore... it's really cold this morning, though, and I didn't want to get up." He looked away. "Sorry I kept you up and waiting."

He looked so very much in need of a hug that she was inclined to reach forward - but then she remembered herself, and withdrew. Her cloak lay discarded upon where she had previously sat; she dragged it closer, then draped it over his shoulders. "Warm yourself up a bit. We'll go when you're ready - they're gone, and won't bother us."

Lear tugged the cloak and his scarf closer, in turn, and closed his eyes as he breathed a contented sigh. He held his silence for so long that Anarei wondered if he'd dozed off again, but then he spoke up softly, "Thanks for fixing us."

"It's much less work than burying you all."

_Well, that wasn't a nice thing to say, considering._

Anarei cleared her throat, feeling the weight of Lear's pendants in her pouch. "Sorry, that wasn't... I didn't, _don't_, want you dead, neither."

He turned to her and opened his eyes partway, giving her a look that was somewhere between confused and bored, and briefly quirked the corner of his lips. "Evidently."

She felt the lump rising in her throat, and looked down - she didn't think she could look him in the eyes. Still, she managed to speak, though she suspected her voice was far too weak to be anything but timid. "I gave his sword back to him - Haekel."

His reaction was instantaneous - he flinched, and flailed a little as he lost his balance, before leaning close, his eyes now wide. "You went _back_ to them? He still had one good hand!"

"And no sword." Anarei lowered her hands; she'd thrown them up as Lear had rounded on her, though in retrospect, she wondered why she felt the need to do it at all. She wrote it off as reflex and dismissed the idea of his ever hurting her - again. The lump in her throat only rose further. "I had his sword, and we have no use for it anyway. I'm fine, see?"

Lear deflated; he closed his eyes again and for a moment looked as if he would've fainted right then and there as he wavered on the spot. Then the moment passed and he sighed, "Alright." He folded his legs under him and rested his forehead against his left hand, his injured arm lying limply upon his lap. "So they went... we've bought time; we'll get you home soon."

"They went." She swallowed hard. "...Haekel, he had something of yours, though. Are these...?"

He looked up as she drew the pendants from her pouch, hanging them off her thumb. He stared at the pendants for a good few seconds, then his eyes brightened, and he snatched them from her with such speed and precision that she didn't think he could manage in his condition.

"Oh, thank the gods!" Lear swapped the pendants to his right hand, and thumbed the curved, stained surface of the pendants with his other. There was a smile upon his face - a real smile, Anarei mused, showing teeth and lighting up his eyes.

She hadn't thought he was capable of making such a face.

Still, it made her smile, the simple pleasure of his own brightened countenance - all the more for the reason that it was so unexpected. She leaned back a bit, hugging her abdomen. In that moment, Anarei realised, she was simply glad to watch him.

_What's he done to me? In the span of a few days, he's scared me, hurt me, pushed me away; and then he makes me weak, and now, happy? _Anarei wrinkled her nose. _No, not happy - but content, I guess._

When Lear could finally bear to take his eyes off his lost-and-found keepsake, he looked up at her; a touch anxious, but his eyes were still warm with heartfelt glee. She felt her pulse quicken, and swallowed again. "I thought I'd lost them when I left them behind... they had them and gave them to you?"

"He called it a trade." Anarei found herself fiddling with the hem of her blouse. She looked down at her knees, noting the way the fabric had been scraped thin there. The idea that she'd had one too many falls recently amused her somewhat. "Seems fair if they mean this much to you."

Lear appeared satisfied with her response; he smiled anew at her, before turning back to the pendants again, inspecting them with an almost gentle sentiment in his eyes.

It occurred to her then that it was unlikely she would ever see that face on him again. The thought made her heart race even faster; she looked away and fought to suppress a sudden desire to take his face in her hands, to kiss him again.

_Stop it._

She wrinkled her nose again, then slumped forward, feeling her curls where they fell against her cheeks. She hoped she wasn't blushing.

Moments later, when she'd rediscovered her sense of propriety, Anarei lifted her head and spoke, quietly. "I'm sorry for your loss, Lear."

"Hmm?" He turned to her - she noted that his colour looked better. "Oh, it's alright... it's not exactly uncommon for people to have these, is it?"

"No. No, it's not." Anarei bit her lip. She wondered if she looked as curious as she felt. "My... friend, Taranis, he has one. It's not uncommon, but it_ is_ sad, and for that, I'm sorry."

Lear shook his head and repeated mildly, "It's alright." Then he stared at her, his expression somewhat thoughtful. "It's alright to ask, too, you know."

_Nuts._

She sighed, then lifted a fisted hand to rub at her cheek. For someone fresh out of a night spent in pained turmoil, Lear was just a bit more perceptive than she'd have liked. Still, he was obviously in a good mood, and she wanted to know - whether or not it was truly her place to ask.

And so she did. Tentatively, at first, but his face lent strength to her query. "Who were they?"

"My parents." His response came much too easily.

Her own response caught in her throat. Anarei found she could only blink, and even then, slowly. Afterwards, she murmured, "Oh. So you were brought up at a foster home?"

Lear nodded twice, matter-of-factly. "Well, not so much a foster home as the couple just took me in, upon their own initiative... they raised me. I grew up in that household - along with their daughter, who's in turn my ward."

She quirked a smile. "You'll see them again soon. You should just go home, see them now, rather than waste your time following me all the way up north."

Lear's face darkened suddenly - as quickly as it had brightened earlier. "I _can't_." He turned away once more. "I've already dishonoured them; there's no need to bother them with real troubles on top of that."

Anarei raised her hands again, though she calmed when he'd turned away. Berating herself for hitting that nerve, she tried again - cautiously like before. She hoped she sounded as apologetic as she felt. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, that was thoughtless of me. I just thought... given the circumstances, that you'd want to see them." She quietened. "I'm sure they'd want to see you."

"Given the circumstances, my wants and theirs don't _matter_." He closed his eyes and hugged his knees to his chest once more, his good hand tucking the pendants away into his pocket. "Anarei... you _saw_ the kind of trouble I'm in."

"I did." Anarei hugged her abdomen tighter, felt her fingers clench in about her waistline. "I just don't think this is something you should do alone, no matter how much you think you're bringing trouble to others. If your family loves you, they'd want to be here. They'd want you to come to them, they'd want you to ask for help."

Lear's eyes opened partway as he shook his head - Anarei was reminded of the same gesture back in the barn, when he'd looked ashamed and afraid. "Not if it puts them in _mortal_ danger. Anarei..." His eyes fell onto his good hand, and he flexed it. "I told you, I don't want anymore blood on my hands"

_If someone were threatening Strahan the way those boys had threatened you - I'd have fought for him. You don't want any more blood on your hands, Lear, but here I am, fighting for you, too._

She let out a quiet sigh. Not for the first time, it occurred to her that Lear probably didn't see it that way. _To him, I'm just another burden he has to protect. A parcel to deliver properly. I wish he'd see I'm not porcelain._

"Tell me about them." Anarei murmured. The change of topic, she felt, would be welcome - she'd learn more, and he'd find comfort remembering those he knew loved him. Or so she hoped. "Your family, tell me about them."

He peered at her, quirking his brows at an odd angle; then he exhaled, and his eyes softened, if only a touch. "I haven't seen them in years."

"So?" She persisted. Her lip curled a little. "Tell me about them, anyway."

He considered her request for a moment. "What do you want to know about them?"

Anarei shrugged a shoulder. "Anything you're comfortable telling me. I just think we could do to remember better days right now. So tell me, anything."

Lear shifted his gaze down, and then up towards the canopy, his dual-toned orbs tracing some movement invisible to her. "My family's in Lut Gholein - my Lord, my Lady, and Lady Chryse, they're all there."

"You grew up by the sea, then? Salt water and warm evenings?" She watched him. "We're complete opposites then, aren't we."

He smiled faintly at that. "Yes... where desert meets ocean. Sun, salt, and sand - that pretty much sums it up." He gave up following the distant moving object, and lowered his eyelids. "There's a lot of life there - flavours, colours, music. You've been there before?"

_Only one time too many._

She shook her head quickly, then waved a hand, hoping the gesture served to be as dismissive as she'd intended. "I have extended family there - not too fond of them, as you might've guessed. But it's your home, hm? You probably had better playmates than I did when I was around - I only had my cousin, and his head was far too big for him to be good company."

Lear snickered - however dry the sound of it was, Anarei thought it was genuine enough. "I have a few playmates there, along with what you could call cousins - my Lord's niece and nephew." He paused, and turned to her, his tone taking on a shade of solemnity. "That was seven years ago, though. Many of them have since left home, made a life for themselves away from the city." He broke eye-contact with her again. "One... joined my order a couple of years after my own initiation."

She swore in her head - far from making him feel any better, she had the distinct feeling he was overthinking the situation. _But it does sound like it could get messy._

Instead, she said, "Do any of them still live there? Izzy's probably there by now, so maybe they've become acquainted."

"Possibly," Lear mumbled half-heartedly. "She should see a few of them around - my cousin's a tinkerer; he's got a job in making and repairing household devices, and last I heard, he's picking up either ceramics or glassblowing. Another friend's a blacksmith; she does metalwork under the tutelage of her father and grandmother. The brothers of the one who joined the order after me, they're carrying on their father's work as a seafarer."

The face he had on him did not do much to encourage good cheer. Anarei bit the insides of her cheeks, nodding slowly. "...What about your, hm. Your ward? Lady Chryse, you said?"

That did its job in making Lear seem just a little happier. "Lady Chryse, huh." His tone had lightened, and the small frown eased from his brows. "She gets bored easily; she works at the city hall for my Lord some days, as a scribe. On other days she serves at the tavern... during the day, though. Never at night." He perked up, and frowned more deeply than before. "...I'd _hope_ she doesn't serve at night."

She chuckled wryly, heartened by the change in his tone. "That wouldn't sit too well with your lord now, would it? I doubt any man would enjoy the sight of his daughter serving in a tavern at night, where the men come out to play. She must be a pretty lady, if you're worried, though."

He smiled a little sheepishly at her, and ran his fingers through his hair. "I wouldn't know... it's been so many years, she'd be all grown up by now - into a charming young lady, probably. She's about your age, too."

Suddenly cold, Anarei rubbed at the sides of her arms. There was a pit in her stomach, and something squeezed at her insides, nudged at her throat. She blinked quickly, then gave her head a brief jerk to the side - she didn't quite know why, but a feeling of deepest unease brought a chill to her chest, cutting her breaths short. "Ah, yes? She's lovely, I'm sure. You must miss her."

"We grew up together; we lived together in the same household, were raised by the same parents. Of course I miss her." Despite his words, there was a fond little grin upon Lear's lips.

The grin only served to cut through her defenses. Still, Anarei forced a chuckle, then nodded quickly - but her voice was solemn. "If the gods are willing, maybe you'll meet again." Painfully aware of her own place, she nonetheless found she meant every word. She hoped her smile conveyed the sentiments. "All of you. So keep your chin up, okay?"

_Too late, Rei. He has someone to go home to, lots of someones. Probably a pretty ward with exotic skin - the Lut Gholein natives all seem to have exotic skin that gleams like they'd just taken a swim in seawater. Maybe she's tall, maybe she has an elegant face and graceful limbs. She probably looks nothing like me, and I'm just... me. But it's okay, I think. He's happy when he talks about her - about his family._

Lear looked at once excited and saddened by the prospect, but he offered her a smile one last time. "Sure." With that, he turned away, cradling his injured arm as he climbed to his feet. "Well... I think I can keep up, if we can find a beaten track to follow and take it easy today."

Anarei watched his back as it was turned to her, bit her lip as her cloak fell from his shoulders. The fabric hit the ground with a thump. She reached forward, took up a fistful of the garment, and felt the remnants of his warmth against her skin before it, too, seeped away.

She swallowed. "Alright, then. Let's go."

* * *

The cleanup had been horrific.

He'd unmade the makeshift bed Anarei had slept upon, wiped away clotted droplets of blood as pointed out by Kyri - he wasn't sure she'd studied the nooks and crannies with as much patience as he himself might have employed, but as she'd remarked afterwards, what he couldn't see couldn't possibly hurt him. The sheets had been washed and hung out to dry, and the barn was swept, mopped, and once again, pristine - as pristine as a barn could be.

It was only after he'd put away the last of the used bowls that Lochi allowed himself to think on the recent happenings. Now that his brief companions were gone - he hoped for good - the druid found himself contemplating the timeliness of his own arrival, and the good fortune that had befallen them, all things considered.

_They survived the ordeal, and now I'm left alone to my own devices. We all get what we want, and nobody's gotten hurt._

He didn't know which sentiment was stronger: relief, or anxiety.

Kyri flicked her tail against his leg as she walked - they'd begun the trek to town shortly after cleaning. It was near midday - or so his eyes, circling the sky high above on hawks' wings, told him. Her voice echoed in his head, sombre - between the pair of them, she alone seemed to miss the excess company.

_Do you think they'll be alright?_

Lochi shrugged a shoulder, shifting his hand from one tree trunk to the next. Now that they were reaching the outskirts of town, the trees were further apart - soon, he would have to rely upon brick walls, memory, sounds, and quite a bit of luck._ I don't think he means her any harm, really. If we take it on good faith that they really were just travelers in a tight spot, I'm sure we have absolutely nothing to worry about._

Kyri sounded unconvinced. _He's shifty. So shifty, and so suspicious a character. _He heard the distaste, clear as a bell. _And snarky. And generally just unpleasant... I wonder how they ended up traveling together._

_He's not that bad, really. But the point is: that's none of our business._ Lochi pursed his lips. _None of that is any of our business. What's important is that they're off on their merry way, and we're -_

_Safe._ Kyri finished his thoughts, though he thought it reeked of drollness. _But you warned him against hurting her, anyway. How's that any of your business?_

He sighed heavily, lifting one hand to scratch at his neck. Further in his mind, deep in the recesses that he'd trained himself to keep hidden from his companion, a memory probed its way to the forefront. He shook his head, felt himself frown._ Look, if they'd gone out somewhere and died afterwards, it could get traced back to us. I don't want that. Like it or not, we're just innocent bystanders in this, and I don't want any trouble. They're trouble._

_Or_ he_ is._ Kyri retained the grumble in her tone - and he knew she'd heard the truth in his own words. _I just thought you spoke to him because of some desire to nurse a hidden noble streak. Protect the damsel's heart. Or something like that._

Lochi rubbed his forehead. For a moment, he wondered if the gesture was sufficient to push back the nagging thoughts in his head - it wasn't.

He saw it in his mind, the moving pictures hazed from years long past: a baby girl with a tossed-up mop of messy brown curls; large, curious greenish eyes, and a nose that wrinkled when he stepped too close to smile. She'd sneezed, and he'd recoiled. The mothers had laughed, and she had giggled, clapped her pudgy hands together.

Anarei, they'd called her.

It had seemed ages ago, when he'd last heard that name. In truth, he knew it hadn't been all that long ago.

He cocked his head slightly. _Maybe I was trying to be noble. You keep telling me I'm a coward, anyway, so maybe I was just trying to step up. Watch out for a young girl in the world. She looked what, sixteen, seventeen?_

Kyri had padded several steps ahead; she stood at the end of the woodland path, perched upon the fallen log that signalled its end. It was habit for her to wait there._ Around there, I guess. Very well-grown for her age, I think. Sturdy._

Lochi let out a soft "hmm", then crossed the log and listened for the thump of Kyri's paws as she followed suit. The memory nudged at his senses yet again - the baby girl had been almost one when they'd met. A curious coincidence, he thought.

_I met someone named Anarei once._

Kyri halted in her surprise, then scurried along after him. _Did you? Is it her?_

Lochi shrugged a shoulder. _I don't know. Maybe, maybe not. It's possible I'm making this up in my head, but on the off-chance I'm not, that girl was my uncle's wife's sister's girl._

The vixen was silent for a long moment. When she voiced out once more, she sounded distinctly annoyed. _Could've just said second cousin. So she's your cousin? Was that why you warned Lear? _She flicked her tail, smacking his leg yet again - this time, she teased. _Your big brother instincts coming into play?_

Lochi bit his lip. _Honestly, I'd forgotten all about her until just then. Whatever this is, they're beyond our reach now. I've done what I could have done, and what a decent person would have. Anything else is beyond my control._

_What if she is the girl, then? _He knew the tone - it was one Kyri spared for moments of disapproval, usually when he chose to be blasé about things she regarded as important. It happened far too often, and was usually accompanied by a sense of lingering guilt afterwards. He felt it then.

Lochi wondered if the guilt was derived from his inability to do any more for his supposed cousin - or his acknowledgement of the fact that he _wouldn't_. The answer he settled upon did not make him feel any better.

Still, he responded. _I'm sure she'll protect herself far better than a blind man might - cousin or not._

He heard Kyri trot ahead, her voice fading somewhat as she appeared to withdraw._ I'm sure._

They walked in silence, and did not commune even when they'd passed the village gates. Even without the stifling crowds and endless hordes of market-going housewives, Lochi usually felt their trips to town to be agitating ordeals - then, with the inclusion of Kyri's current displeasure with him, he found it even worse.

It didn't help that the village seemed packed to bursting. Shoulders and elbows came at him from all sides - he muttered hurried apologies, reached to feel at the wall directly to his right, and prayed it would guide him sufficiently.

_You had to get your soap today. _Kyri had returned to his side - she sounded as irritated as he thought she was.

He scowled. About to respond, he was cut off by a sudden voice that rang through the air, distinctive amongst the murmurs and hubbub that washed out into an inconsequential hum in the background of his mind - it was shrill, a scream filled with panic and fear, one that drove him to shrinking against his wall.

"Wait, WAIT!" It was the voice of a woman. "Don't hang him yet! What's his name? Tell me his name!"

It occurred to Lochi then, that he'd neared the center of town without realising it. On a regular day, it was no more packed than a busy intersection might be. That was not the case at present - from what he could hear in the commotion, it was a very loud, and very public execution.

Several gruff voices responded to the shrill cry of the woman, told her promptly to shut it, and repeated, "This man is dangerous! Didn't you hear? Or... are you his accomplice, huh?"

"No!" The same feminine voice retorted instantly - it was becoming cracked, and, even as he turned to edge further from the square, away from the shuffling crowd, Lochi noted the hint of girlishness within it. "Just... I may know him - grey hair, right?"

"That woman's spewing nonsense." The words were projected in a smooth, deep voice that resounded through the square - Lochi heard it loud and clear, even in the alleyway he'd backed into. He assumed it belonged to the judge, or whomever had been sent by the officials to witness the execution. "Do it."

"No, please - no!" The woman's - or was it a girl's? - voice climbed to a piercing shriek; in that instant, the air seemed to buzz and warm before growing heavier, and then a huge crash sent him jumping back in shock. Kyri leapt into his arms; he held her, gritting his teeth as the sounds arose. Splintering wood and twisting metal, screaming children, cursing men and women and shouting -

"LEAR!"

_Anarei?_

Kyri was wriggling in his arms; where she had sought safety before, she was simply curious now. _It doesn't sound like her, but I'm not sure._

He held on tighter, and she strained against him, paws and tail against his face. _It probably isn't them, then. Kyri, stop it - let's go._

The yelp that escaped her was harsh with what fury her little body could muster. _You can't tell for sure, neither, and I can't see if it's him because they've got a sack over his head. She could be in trouble, and if she is your family -_

You _are my family. _Lochi growled.

The vixen stiffened. And then, sensing the momentary loosening of his hold, she broke free, and before he could react, darted away.

His feet moved of their own accord - the girl who'd screamed and shrieked earlier was still fighting and shouting as he broke into the crowd to chase after the vixen. He barely heard her wild cursing, the desperation of her cries, and the grunts between her words. Arms slapped at him, their angry owners pushing him away as he brushed past inelegantly. The stench of sweat hung thickly; he struggled to make out the sounds ringing in his ears, to separate them and follow accordingly. The judge's voice grew stronger, louder - he was nearing the front. In his dogged pursuit through the thick, stifling crowd, Lochi pushed the rising panic from his mind, refused its debilitating effects, until at last he came to the vixen. Then he heard more sounds - things breaking amidst the chaos. Finally, the voice of the judge rang true once more.

"Proceed with the execution."

There was a collective gasp from the crowd; the chaotic buzz of voices died down into stunned silence, before the girl broke into loud, frantic rants.

"Take the mad woman into custody."

Kyri was trembling when he roughly scooped her up into his arms, her fur bristling. Lochi swallowed, forced himself to stand still, willed his heart to calm - but it refused. So he slumped over, hugging the vixen close against his chest, and reminded himself to breathe.

_At least until the crowd thins so we can get out of here._

He tried to close his ears to the string of creative profanity that the girl hurled at the judge, the executioner, and their mothers. Soon her words died down into hysterical wails, and then even those wails began to fade, presumably as she was being taken away.

In the gradually-quietening square, Lochi found he simply could not shake the feeling that something terrible had just happened. He heard the snap of the rope as it was cut, the thump of the body, and the disgruntled mutterings of the men who were charged with removing it.

Kyri squirmed. _You're shaking._

_You're stupid for running away._ He snarled - he wasn't quite certain _what _he was feeling, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt that way, if ever. _We could've gotten into a lot of trouble._

_We didn't. _She met his anger with a stern calmness. Now that she'd gotten her way, Kyri was content to behave. _That wasn't her._

He swallowed again. The lump in his throat was rising steadily. _But she's looking for Lear._

_That wasn't him, neither._

Lochi took a deep breath. The connections were forming - or trying to, in his head, but the lines were broken, disconnected. He rubbed at the side of his head. _That girl is looking for Lear - and she thinks he's just been hung. _

Something clicked into place in his head. Kyri had obviously sensed it - he noted the smug pleasure in her own thoughts as her furry tail flicked against his nose. In that moment, the druid wondered if the gods would disapprove if he'd kicked his companion - his gift. _Well, you're obviously very shaken up. Is it extended anxiety, Lochi, or are you actually feeling bad for the poor girl?_

The vixen yelped as he dropped her, but he knew she'd landed on her feet. He noted the amusement in her thoughts - amusement at his torment, and approval at the decision she knew he'd arrived upon.

He wondered if he had managed to hide his thoughts from her, after all - and realising the answer to his own question, turned and strode angrily from the square, her laughter echoing in his mind.

* * *

It was an impressive sword.

Leah had only found the hilt after she'd started cleaning out the place. Her uncle had been cremated, his ashes now resting in an urn, which she had carefully wrapped to protect. She took some time considering where she would lay him to rest, and settled on Caldeum - her uncle loved that place, and some of her fondest memories with him had been created there.

She would think more about that later; right now, the sword consumed her attention. One of the cultists had dropped the hilt during the incident that had taken her uncle's life. Haedrig had finished reforging it earlier in the week, but she had been putting off picking it up from the blacksmith, knowing that her uncle had died for an insignificant, ruddy sword.

But now that she had unravelled it from its cloth bindings, Leah found it difficult to harbour any contempt for the thing. The metals that composed the blade were unlike anything she'd ever come across - she was no alchemist, but Leah thought it looked like pure platinum, yet did not weigh much more than an average sword of iron or steel; the hilt looked golden, but felt no heavier than chrome. Its material was intriguing, and its design was otherworldly - beautifully contoured, with transparent stones - Leah suspected they were beryls - set into the middle of the guard and the pommel. Despite all these embellishments, none of its aesthetic features would get in the way of the sword's handling, as far as she could imagine.

She tapped the sword's guard where it lay upon her uncle's table; the blade caught the sunlight and gleamed warmly.

_Were the pieces this shiny before the sword had been reforged?_ Leah didn't think so. _Haedrig had worked hard on it. _

She touched the blade, feeling the gentle heat of the sun both on the back of her hand, and in her palm - it was as if the sword was radiating the sun's warmth.

Leah didn't know how long she stood there, basking in that warmth, but annoyance bubbled when someone knocked on the door and snapped her out of the moment.

"What?" She didn't care for propriety.

The voice that spoke was one she recognised - fluidly elegant, traces of distinct authority in its tone. "I'd like to speak with you if that's alright. It won't take long."

She strode to the door and flung it open. The aqua-blue eyes that met her gaze were mild; their owner inclined his head lazily in greeting.

Leah pursed her lips, ignored his probing gaze and reminded herself that he wouldn't and couldn't possibly know the details of recent happenings in Tristram - not pertaining to his sister, anyway. They were long gone, and the hound's hunters too. "What do you want?"

The healer responded without pause nor hesitation. "I want to know if you've seen my sister since she'd returned here. She told me about your casual meeting over lunch before we'd left that time."

Leah tried to recall the particular meeting, and after hitting a blank, decided the detail was unimportant. "Oh yes. She came back, and hung around that patient of yours..." Frustration and hurt bubbled in her stomach, and she willed for her expression to remain neutral. "They didn't stay for long; left a bit over a month ago." She thought of something, and added promptly, "Together."

She knew the anger she felt for the hound and his mage sister was unjustified, now that she'd realised Chryse had not, in fact, betrayed her orders. That Maghda had simply thought one step further, and that there was nothing the girl could have done about it. But Lear was another matter; he behaved unexpectedly, he didn't play by her rules, and above all else, he was rude and hostile.

She wanted the healer to be angry at the hound, just as she was.

His reaction was disappointing to say the least; just a sigh and a slight nod of resigned acceptance. "I don't suppose you know where they've gone? I'd like to have something more concrete to tell our father when he asks. I doubt he'd enjoy hearing his daughter's out traveling alone with a man."

Leah deflated a little, felt the fire in her chest simmer down into mere disgruntledness. She relented; at the moment, she didn't feel resentful enough to torment the healer. After all, he'd helped the town. "She's headed north - homebound, as far as I know. But the man seemed more in control of their course than she was. The young miss was pretty happy following him around."

He looked somewhat amused, his smile wry. "There's that, then. I have another query to make, however." He looked her in the eyes, his voice neutral despite the nature of his words. "You were attacked by the coven recently. Is that correct?"

As much as Leah prided herself in her ability to keep her face under control, she knew her expression had darkened before she could stop it. Deciding to proceed with the course of things, she held her glare, and her silence.

He simply held his gaze, unwavering. "I have unfinished business with the coven. I trust you remember the ransacking of the town - you can also trust that we're on the same page when it comes to what we think about those witless enough to join their forces."

Leah clenched her jaws. She remembered the aftermath of the cultists' ravage - orphans crying, the elderly grieving for their sons and daughters, the frantic calls of spooked livestock. They'd killed Rumford at the gates, dismembered his body before throwing parts of it into the bushes. Then they had killed her uncle. Could have killed _her_.

It would seem that the coven was making enemies of many people as of late.

"We're not the only ones on this particular page, here." Her voice came out smoothly. She was reclaiming the situation, and she liked the way it felt - to be in control. "I have some things to finish off right now, but I'll call on you. I think... I may be able to hook you up with someone who can give you more information."

* * *

The note had come late in the evening, just as he was about to retire to bed. A young boy had delivered it - freckled, eager for the silver coin he'd receive for the service, curious as to the contents of the folded sheet he'd ferried along. Strahan had rewarded him with another piece of silver, and sent him on his way.

It was a cursive scrawl, legible enough, but careless:

_Be at the dining hall of Rosethorn Riffle tomorrow, at noon. My contact will meet you then. Look for the templar - his name is Kormac. You won't miss him._

It was only after Strahan had made his way into the diner of his old lodgings, that he wondered if Leah hadn't overestimated the templar's ability to stand out in a crowd. The dining hall was fairly packed; singles and coupled-up travelers, likely merchants and tradespeople. He thought he saw the odd wandering hunter, but that didn't surprise him at all.

_Dark times. Makes sense that the hunters are out and about._

He'd seen no tiny share of them on the way to Lut Gholein. Wary men and women, he'd thought, lacking in humour - Isobel had thought them unpleasant, until he'd explained the origins of the order.

Now that they'd parted ways, the sunny girl in the sunny desert, and he on the road once more, Strahan missed her more than ever. She'd taken to her aunt with far less animosity than Anarei had harboured; then again, Strahan reasoned, she hadn't _met _the woman before then.

Still, he hoped she would enjoy herself. It seemed a fairly good possibility at present. And while he wasn't particularly worried about Anarei, despite her decision to travel with their troublemaking patient, Isobel was an entirely different matter.

He hadn't let her out of his sight since the incident with the cultists. _With Karalir._

He'd had a little bit more time to make sense of his last encounter with his brother. It hadn't taken him long to decide upon a course of action - he had known the day would come, after all.

_Since the day we parted ways, when I renounced what you'd made of Rathma. _He saw the images in his head - clear, distinct, as if they'd only just occurred yesterday. His brother, then only twenty-two, and he, a boy of twelve. Their last farewell on that regular day in the swamplands, his own a veiled threat, a promise, hidden beneath a carelessly-bidden goodbye. The corpses of the men who'd pursued him - men who had died with spears of bone in their chests.

The same spears Karalir had seen fit to throw at his family - the family he had _chosen_.

Strahan felt his jaw tighten, the same way it did every time the realisation dawned upon him - _He's found me, and he's come to finish it at last. Cull the weak, deny the son who'd denied the father. Too bad it took seven years and then some - he really should have done it back when I was easier to kill._

He wasn't one to wait for the predator - his only hope was that Leah's informant would prove to be as valuable as she seemed to believe. He was also very much aware of her own desire for revenge. _And if that's what I have to play to, to get the information I need - well. Then that's what I'll do._

A stool freed up at the bar as one of the patrons stood to exit. He made his way to the seat and took it, then placed his order.

"Whiskey, please."

He caught a glimmer of movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned towards it.

A pair of dark orbs stared back; the boy who owned them held his gaze. Discomfited, Strahan felt a frown coming on. Before it managed to materialise, however, the dark-eyed boy smiled - a kind, warm thing, before he lowered his eyes and continued clicking away on a small wooden abacus.

He hadn't noticed the sound before, but now that he had, he found it distinctly irritating - he hoped the stiff drink would improve his mood. It was warm, spiced with some heady scent that he couldn't recognise - but once more, the tapping and clicking drew his attention.

The boy was still focused upon his papers when Strahan looked over again. He was young, Strahan thought, perhaps in his mid-teens - slightly chubby around the face, his jawline boyishly soft, his facial features rather delicate, but improminent save for his eyebrows. His complexion was tan, with a yellowish hue. His dark hair was short and tidy - an unusual sight in this diner frequented by ruddy, tired men. His layers of robes were either too big for him, or too small - Strahan couldn't quite put his finger on it; they just looked like a poor fit, though he thought he'd seen such garments before.

He also noted that the boy had an empty plate, bowl and mug on the table, neatly stacked and set aside, with every last morsel of food cleaned off them; sheets of parchment occupied the rest of his working space.

It hit him then.

_Ivgorod_.

They'd passed the foothills of the Sharval wilds, far beneath the vast halls of the monastery, where monks of the Sahptev faith lived in detachment from the realm. On his journey alone, he'd encountered one or two.

They wore the same garments - but none had looked like _this_.

Certainly, the young boy could boast of possessing the same kind of focus - for one, Strahan mused, he'd managed to work on what could only be calculations in such a noisy environment. For another, he'd failed to notice his being watched very intently for the past few minutes. _And I haven't exactly been subtle about it, neither. He's so consumed with his numbers, it's like nothing else exists to him right now._

Strahan draped an arm over the edge of the bar counter. _What kind of monk is this, anyway?_

His thoughts were interrupted when he caught sight of yet more movement - this time, from behind the young monk. A large case - longer than the boy was tall - was propped against the wall behind him, covered with plump, embroidered brocade of pastel-green and cream. Metal latches held it close, and an embellished leather strap trailed from one end to the other.

Strahan wondered why a man would carry such a fruity, womanly thing, but there were yet more intriguing matters to observe - such as the dark, lissom figure of the man currently trying to pluck the case from the wall.

_A thief, it would appear._ Strahan wet his lips; he wasn't certain it was appropriate to smile at an attempt at thievery, but his lips curled nonetheless. _A very bad thief, and a monk so focused on his work that he hasn't noticed he's being stolen from. That's interesting._

Suddenly, the delicately-balanced calm was disrupted. A dark shadow loomed over the scene; a large hand clamped over the relatively frail wrist of the thief, who yelped in shock. The boy, on the other hand, looked up mildly and belatedly, and only spared a confused, "Eh?"

"A robbery in broad daylight?" The booming voice seemed to echo despite its roughness, and the diner quietened. "Such audacity. Have you no shame, you scoundrel?"

The scoundrel of a thief recovered with a gallant sort of chuckle; Strahan noted just how unfazed he was, though that thought quickly dispelled itself as he spoke, "Relax, Kormac. Loosen your codpiece a bit so more air gets to your brain."

_Ah. Kormac._

"Can't you see I was only trying to make sure this case here was safe?" The scoundrel jerked his head quickly at the young monk, his voice affably warm and invariably charming - the man was certainly shameless. "It was wobbly, and would've fallen over. Shame to break it, especially if it's worth a lot."

The young monk blinked, and stammered a bit as he broke into a sheepish, toothy grin, but before he could form words, Kormac spun around and scrutinised Strahan with sharp, unforgiving eyes.

"And who's this man with no sense of righteousness?" He released the thief's hand with a shove. "Who'd watch a helpless lad get robbed without lifting a finger against such blatant misdeed?"

Strahan swirled the remains of his whiskey in its tumbler; it had only taken seconds for him to decide that he wasn't going to be fond of the templar. Still, he chose to respond, careful to check his tone for distaste. "Blatant Misdeed -" He pointed towards the scoundrel. "- is a really bad thief, if he had indeed been trying to steal from Helpless Lad here. As it turns out, I only saw him poke the case, and maybe try to lift it - but as he's said, it's possible he was only trying to stop it from falling over. What do you think?"

Kormac scowled. "A crime conspired is a crime nevertheless." He pointed a thick finger at Strahan's chest. "And silence against such is merely a cowardly form of condonement."

"Naw, it's okay!" The young monk finally found his voice. He was still smiling, despite the awkward frown upon his prominent brows. "No harm done. Can we just thank the gods and let it go?"

Strahan looked over. Something didn't sit quite right with him - he supposed it was the way the boy's accent just didn't fit with his looks. _Ivgorod and, I think, northeast Xiansai - really, just what kind of monk is this boy? _

He heard the scoundrel mutter, and barely hid his smile at the disgruntled complaint: "The only injustice going on here is the preaching you're shoving down our throats."

Despite the mild amusement he drew from the situation, however, Strahan found he had only one realisation.

_I'm definitely not going to enjoy this._

* * *

**Authors' Notes: **

**Oph: **Are you excited? We're excited! More characters, revisiting old characters, moving along with the canon plot, moving along with our _own _plot... it's all so exciting! Whee!

**Em: **While we're definitely having fun writing this, we also hope you're having fun reading! And there is no greater pleasure for us than the pleasure of reading your reviews, so we'd like to thank **Heka**, **General Peaches** (Voren in disguise!), **Nightbreed6** and **Patches** for giving us just so much juice to spazz on!

**Oph: **We'd like to disclaim that while we've got a lot of our own juice, some juice does belong to Blizzard, namely the canonic plots, characters and settings of the Diablo series. Another due acknowledgement must be made to Heka, who was there for us to bounce ideas off of!

**Em: **We've sort of inducted her into our fold as a beta-reader of sorts, and we're really grateful for her readers' perspective, which is very much needed. Each and every one of your thoughts counts to us, so please, keep said reviews coming! Plots, conspiracy theories regarding our storyline - anything you want us to know, drop us a line!

**Oph: **The good and the bad, we'll have it all - we're hungry hungry authors. Anyway, hope you've enjoyed reading this chapter as much as we've enjoyed writing it! Cheerio!


	19. Chapter 18: Adventurers Assemble

**Chapter 18**

**Adventurers Assemble**

* * *

He wanted to break something.

The past hour of discussion had done little to enlighten him on the cultist situation at hand. Kormac had spent the time trading insults with the scoundrel - his name was Lyndon, or so they had been told. Strahan didn't really care - it mattered nothing in the grand scheme of things as far as his plans were concerned. The amusement he'd found in the situation had dissipated just as quickly as it had arisen. He was just annoyed, now.

Still, as he glowered inwardly at the men seated before him, he wondered if he could've, really, done anything at all to change the way the day had turned out. Somewhere between the witty and not-so-witty bantering thrown about during the course of the afternoon, the monk had seen fit to intervene.

"Everything's fine, and no harm's been done. Let's forget about this?" He'd said.

Strahan hadn't really expected the templar to drop the subject - he had seemed far too ingrained in his pursuit of justice against the would-be thief to back away. He wasn't disappointed. They continued to argue; it was only when he'd begun to debate the importance and significance of Kormac's information on his own, that he'd realised they'd stopped - he wondered if it had anything to do with the expression he'd worn then, as if he'd rather be elsewhere.

Truth be told, he had been about to leave. Presently, he wished he _had_.

It was once again the monk who'd come between the two. He had apologised sincerely for being careless, thanked both Lyndon for securing his possession and Kormac for ensuring order was kept, and asked if they would accept his token of gratitude in the form of a drink. Strahan couldn't be sure if it was merely a ploy to end the bickering, or if the monk had truly believed what he'd said.

_In which case, he's either really dim, or painfully idealistic. _He didn't think the monk looked overly wise - the thought made him even angrier.

He picked up his teacup. The dregs of the black tea leaves within had sunk to the bottom; he swirled them around, then took a sip. Lyndon muttered under his breath, and Strahan thought he heard a complaint regarding the monk's choice of beverage. Privately, he agreed.

Instead of complaining, however, he chose to speak. "So."

"So?" The monk seemed rather pleased with himself, and looked around the table keenly, his grin wide and bright as he looked between the templar and the thief. "Looks like you two already know each other... Kormac and Lyndon, eh?" He laid a hand on his chest and dipped his head meekly and courteously. "I'm Heulan Serac. It's great to meet you all!"

_That's a rather odd name. Then again, he looks nothing like a conventional monk, anyway._

Strahan slanted his gaze aside towards the other two; while Lyndon looked predominantly pleasant, and even happy to have made an acquaintance, Kormac wore the same expression he knew he did - impatience. He pursed his lips, then turned towards the monk. "Strahan Tandhekar. I'd echo your sentiments, but perhaps it's not the best of times for leisurely tea-tasting."

"Ah, I beg to differ." Heulan let out a little chuckle as he took another quick sip of his tea. "This tea's not quite good enough for _tasting_, but it's not bad if you want to relax and calm down a little - I think we can all do with some calming down, eh?"

"Pardon me, then, brother of the Light," Kormac spoke up; Strahan noted his tone to be in the most polite manner he'd heard from the templar thus far. "But I was told to come here to meet with this healer here." He jerked his head sharply towards him, before finally meeting Strahan's eye. "Lady Leah told me there's a chance for collaboration; apparently our aims align."

"I seek the coven." Strahan set his cup down. There was something nagging in the depths of his mind, that disagreed with the sight of four men drinking from painted porcelain teacups. He found it a trace insulting, even, though that was the least of his worries. He pursed his lips. _I've wasted far too much time today. Enough is enough._ "Lady Leah believes you have the information I require."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lyndon observing attentively, while the monk seemed engrossed in savouring his drink. Kormac, however, pushed his cup aside, and propped one elbow upon the table to block the scoundrel out of the conversation. "I, like you, seek the coven. Ultimately, I'm in search of the lost scriptures of my order, and I believe that the witch Maghda knows the whereabouts of some of them." His fist clenched, and he bared his teeth as his voice darkened. "We fear the cultists may be using some of our order's secrets to serve whatever dark lord they follow. They will pay for such acts of desecration."

Strahan wondered for a moment if Kormac was aware that Lyndon had heard every word - the volume of his voice was far too difficult to ignore. He suppressed the thought, however, and pressed on. "I have no need for your scriptures. What, or who I'm after is one of the coven's officers. He led the attack on Tristram some weeks back." He narrowed his eyes. "You have leads to follow? A means to trail them? I hear they've retreated."

"They did. Apparently after killing Elder Cain and kidnapping a man, thinking he had something to do with the undeads. Probably trying to find out a way to raise even _more_ dead, those damned sons of whores." The monk perked up at this, but Strahan could not find the time to spare him a glance in between Kormac's continued speech. "They sure are superstitious fools, though. Lady Leah said that after Leoric's spirit was finally put to rest, the coven moved into his manor. Know how to live it up, don't they?"

"Leoric's manor? The one rumoured to house the mad king's torture chambers?" Strahan set his elbows upon the table and felt the wood creak beneath his and Kormac's combined weight. He recalled the books kept within the Naveau library - tales and journals, myths and legends. He'd seen the drawings. "No one's dared to loot it, despite the grandeur. I suppose that means there's something lurking there."

This time, it was Lyndon who perked up. Strahan watched the scoundrel out of the corner of his eye, and took his reaction as definitive proof: if thieves steered clear of what was obviously a gold mine, something was wrong indeed.

The table creaked again as Heulan planted his hands upon the table. "You want to go in, after the coven? Just the _two_ of you?"

Kormac waved his hand dismissively, though the tone directed towards the monk was once again notably more courteous. "I've fought many cultists in the time I'd been around here; they're weak and foolish - after all, they should know... what measly, pathetic power they may gain from their devotion to the darkness is nothing in the face of the light."

_Unless, of course, they harness their power through some other means. Not everyone needs light or darkness to cower behind._

Strahan shifted his gaze towards Heulan. The templar's show of bravado was beginning to grate on him. "Obviously I don't intend to charge headlong into their ranks. That's not to say I won't head in there, however. I likely just won't be _announcing _my arrival."

He heard Lyndon cough back a chuckle, and wondered if the scoundrel hadn't caught his meaning after all. Their eyes met briefly - then the scoundrel smirked.

"So, Kormac." Strahan straightened. "My methods include infiltration in a rather more subtle manner. Shall I assume you don't share my sentiments?"

"As long as your methods are honourable - not like those employed by this cowardly scoundrel here," the templar paused to glare at Lyndon, who simply grinned sheepishly. Heulan, however, frowned in open disapproval, but held his tongue. Kormac ignored him and refocused on Strahan. "I will fight by your side. There is no reason you should hunt alone."

Strahan found he could only grunt in response. "I'm not really looking for a partner. The plan is to be in and out, and to avoid skirmish where necessary."

_No point fighting a whole army of cultists when it's just one person I'm after - one head._

"We don't have to work as _partners_." Kormac grimaced at the emphasis, as if the word itself tasted bitter. "We're pursuing different things, held by the same people. I don't know how well you can avoid skirmish with those mindless cultists; they're pretty indiscriminate, as you'd know."

"That's not nice."

The monk had interrupted before Strahan could respond; his words were murmured in a low voice, by one not expecting attention. Yet Strahan heard him clearly - the perturbed tone suggested despondence. It was not quite petulant, but the sentiment was fairly close. "The cultists, you mean?"

Heulan lifted his gaze from where his head was bowed, and muttered through pursed lips, "They're still people."

_Lovely. A monk with romantic ideals - I've got _plenty _of time for this._

Strahan heard the sarcasm in his own mind. He narrowed his eyes; Kormac wore an arched eyebrow and Lyndon simply looked disgusted. The scoundrel cleared his throat, breaking the silence that hung thick between them. "They razed a town of eight hundred to the ground in two days."

Heulan's impressive brows drew closer together, clearly troubled by Lyndon's statement. When he lifted his head, he implored each of them in turn with his wide, dark eyes. "So you're going in to... get what you need? That's it?" He focused on Strahan. "You're not going to try and stop them from doing these horrible things? We know where they are - this is a great opportunity to help out the town. If we can stop the cultists -"

"Ideally, the town's militia should be doing something about it themselves." Strahan lifted one hand and pinched at the bridge of his nose. He wondered if the mild throbbing at the back of his head would soon become a greater headache. "I'm doing what I can, and what I _need _to - which is to find the person I want to find. Everything else is an unnecessary delay."

The monk's knuckles cracked loudly as he closed his hands into fists. When he spoke again, his voice was deeper - less boyish. "Let me come with you, then. You can find your person..." He jerked his head to the templar. "...And you can find your scriptures; but let me come along and do what I can for the town."

Kormac let out a bark of a laugh at this; Heulan flinched at the sound, and then again when the other man clapped him on the shoulder. "And this is why you're my brother of the light." He addressed Strahan, then. "Let the holy man come along, healer. He's doing the work of saints."

If Kormac sounded a little too enthused, to the point of being condescending, Heulan didn't seem to have noticed. He simply turned aside, looking neither proud nor embarrassed, and regaining that mild, meek voice before muttering, "It's only right."

_Baggage. Extra chests to cart around._ Strahan pinched even harder where his thumb and forefinger met nose-bridge.

"If they get to come, I'm coming too."

The scoundrel had leaned forward, despite Kormac's best attempts to keep him back. Strahan thought the words far too hastily spoken; then he saw the glint of treasure lust in his eyes.

It was Kormac who saved him the effort of speaking. "After good men to help you loot, scoundrel? What do you take us for, fools?"

Lyndon jerked his head towards Heulan. "If he gets to do his part for the town, so do I. Let me help."

His appeal to the monk could not have been any more transparent.

"You're not even _from_ around here!" Kormac nearly leapt out of his seat as he leaned in between Lyndon and Heulan, blocking off the former as he addressed the latter. "This is naught but a greedy man, after nothing but coin, treasure, and his own pleasure." He grunted and scowled as the monk giggled at the accidental rhyme, growing more insistent in both tone and posture. "Surely a holy man such as yourself would know to steer clear from those who are immoral."

"Eh." Heulan simply smiled. "We are all sinners, you know."

That caught Kormac off-guard. He sank back into his seat, defeated, and glared at Strahan. "So?"

_One, two, three bodies to lug about._ Strahan wondered how much their joining in would delay him. _On the other hand, it means I won't have to sneak around as much. Extra hands, so to speak, in case it gets nasty in there._

He looked between the three. _Damned if I do, and damned if I don't. _It occurred to him then, that now was as good a time as any to walk away.

Instead, he grunted. "I don't entertain complaints, and we go at my pace. We leave tomorrow."

* * *

Chryse wished for many things. She wished for the warmth and comfort of home, for the company of loved ones. She wished that she was mistaken, that she had not just watched her brother hang from the noose, that she wouldn't have to bring his body home, after everything she'd done to find him.

But at this very moment, she wished for a handkerchief.

Her eyes and nose were running, and Chryse wasn't quite sure if she was even crying anymore. She _did_ know, however, that the dirty, dusty cell was doing a number on her. Feeling helpless in just about everything in her life right now, she sneezed again, and wiped her nose with her sleeve. Propriety be damned, her parents weren't here to see it.

_Nor is Brother here to tell me off for it. _

Her eyes welled up at the thought, and she kicked the rusty iron bars of the prison cell. The sharp pain in her toe distracted her for a moment, then she collapsed in a heap again; she only felt more miserable, with a stubbed toe added on top of her mountain of anxieties.

Her attention shifted at the grating croak of an old steel door. The shrill, rough squeak resounded within the prison, echoing in the relative silence. Chryse winced at the noise, and jumped when the door slammed shut with a crash.

Footsteps sounded - a firm thud, probably belonging to the guard at the forefront, followed by a reluctant and muted tapping. _Another prisoner? This one isn't putting up much of a fight._

"Five minutes, mister."

She looked up as the men stepped into the dim light from the low-burnt candles beyond her cell. The guard did not look unkind, though he was obviously disgruntled at having been disturbed. Chryse wasn't in much of a mood to be forgiving - he _had _thrown her into the cell. Orders or no, she disliked the man on principle.

So she looked towards the other. It took her a moment to be sure that she was looking at a grown man - he was small, and his clean, albeit ruffled and wavish hair fell over his eyes. He wasn't dressed like an official - rather, he wore plain clothes that didn't quite fit his slender frame. Chryse couldn't recall if she'd seen him at the scene.

As the guard took his leave - and the door made its infernal, ear-piercing screech again - she sat up, tried to see his shadowed face better as she sniffled and wiped her nose once more. Searching her memory again, she came up with no clue as to who the man was; and so she waited for him to speak.

He sounded gentler than she'd expected. His voice was quiet, but deep and smooth. "Are you hurt?"

A grumble preceded her words. "Depends what you mean by 'hurt'; I feel horrible in pretty much every way possible."

Chryse saw the curve of his lips, the makings of a wry little smile - then he stepped into the light, and she saw his eyes - cloudy and mottled. Unseeing, he nonetheless knelt before the bars that separated them, and placed his hands upon his lap. "You are looking for someone named Lear."

She leapt up at that, almost throwing herself into the bars, and winced again as her bruised and grazed knees hit the floor. Closing her hands around the rusty bars, she pulled herself closer to her visitor, and demanded, "Yes, yes, I am! You know about him?"

He cocked his head slightly, lifting one hand. "Don't get too excited just yet, miss." She bit down on her lower lip, and the man continued, "I need you to tell me about your Lear, and I will try and match it to the person I met. Can you do that?"

Chryse straightened and backed a little from the bars, her brows tightened into a frown as she considered that maybe he _was_ an official, after all. "He's my brother." Her voice weakened instantly, and she swallowed before she went on, "I haven't _seen_ him in _years_, though." A realisation hit her, and she pressed into the bars once more. "...How'd _you_ know what he looks like, anyway?"

He gave her that smile again, though this time, she saw a trace of irony within it. Another set of feet, even softer upon the floors, made themselves heard. She caught the glimpse of a fluffy red tail, and the smallish dark nose that soon pressed itself against the bars, near her hands. "I have my ways, I assure you. Will you tell me what you know, so that I can confirm what_ I_ know?"

Chryse pursed her lips for a second, and decided to trust this man - for now. "He has straight hair, a faded, brownish colour - almost grey, some people would say." The little black nose wriggled as the red fox sniffed, and she brought the back of her hand towards it. "His eyes are unique - two-toned, half-green and half-grey. His skin's lighter, but darker than yours..." She considered how much he might've changed since he left home all those years ago, and added, "But he could be paler now."

The man appeared to listen - but as the silence stretched out, she wondered if he was only listening to _her_. The fox's tail brushed his knee, and she saw, again, that smile upon his face. When he straightened once more, his pale eyes were soft. "I don't think that was your brother they hung. The Lear I met was traveling north when we parted ways, and his companion would've been more than unlikely to let him hang like that."

Chryse wanted to hurl countless questions at him - _why was he here? Who was his companion? How did you of all people meet him? Why was he going north? Hell, what is that fox telling you? How much do you really know?_

She settled on only one. "How was he?"

He lowered the line of his would-be vision, bowed his head just a touch. A faint sigh escaped him - he spoke gently, despite the bluntness of his words, "Hurt, confused, a little bit hostile." A momentary pause. "But alive."

"He was hurt?" The pieces were materialising, but not quite falling into place. She still didn't have the answer to why he'd stopped their regular exchange of letters.

The man pursed his lips. "Yes. But he was fine when they left. The both of them."

Chryse wondered if her visitor was being intentionally unfriendly, or if he was just shy. In any case, it didn't seem like he'd divulge what she did not ask. So she asked again, "How did you meet them? Who's the other person?"

He frowned just a touch - and she was just about to snap at him, when she noted the expression of deep concentration, a focused furrow of the brow that suggested he was listening hard. He cocked his head afterwards, shutting those eyes briefly.

As if on schedule, the guard's voice rang loud - irritable and brash. "It's been five minutes."

The man turned towards her again. His lips pursed briefly, and he managed to clear his throat, before calling out more loudly, "Just a little bit more, good sir. I will be along presently." He lowered his voice again. "Her name is Anarei, and he's accompanying her up north, back to her home. I'm sorry, but we really don't have much time, and that story will take far too long. They will release you soon, so just be patient until then. Do you have any other questions?"

Chryse deflated a little, despaired at the prospect of having to remain in this wretched cell, but at least she was relieved of some of the misery she'd previously harboured. Feeling somewhat grateful, she tried for a smile. "Will you meet with me again when I'm out of here? We'll both be in better spirits, then, and be more inclined to share."

He let out a low breath, but it came out more akin to a quiet, resigned sigh. His reluctance did not go by unnoticed; but still, he nodded. "Of course. I had meant to meet again for further discussion, anyway, and you will need to know more if you are to find him."

She nodded in return, then remembered that he couldn't see. "Thank you. You'd better get out before the guard comes for you." At her behest, he dipped his head again, and she watched as he got to his feet. It occurred to her then to add, hurriedly, "Can I bother you with one more request, though?"

He turned his wearied expression to face her, hair prickling his eyelids. Unwillingly gallant, he murmured his response, "Yes, miss?"

"Ask the guard to bring me a handkerchief, please? I can't talk to him without getting angry and rude."

Once again, his gaze softened. The fox placed two padded paws upon his booted foot - he pursed his lips at her, then barely smiled and shook his head. Only then did he slip his hand into his pocket, and withdrawing a small, clean square of blue, handed it to her through the bars of her cell. "I'm not sure guards keep clean handkerchiefs, miss. Stop crying and get some rest. We'll talk soon."

* * *

"You ride so fast."

Lear jerked around so fast he felt his shoulder burn - Anarei had closed the deep wound nicely, but the scar tissue within still felt raw and tender. Nevertheless, he gave her only a mildly quizzical look as he awaited her elaboration.

Anarei was poised upon the palomino they'd acquired - the horse nickered softly, mild, even for a stallion. His rider bent forward, rubbed at the side of his neck. "You ride really fast, like you've had a lot of experience." She quirked a smile. "Have you?"

Lear brushed his fingers through his hair, untangling a few leaves from the windswept strands as he considered the question. "...I wouldn't say so. I'm not a great rider."

_Now, Allik... _he_ was good. _

The thought drew an involuntary frown from him, even when he forcefully dispelled it. He turned his eyes back to the front and pulled a little harder on the reins of his own horse, feeling the wounds in his right forearm sear and burn angrily. He suppressed a wince, and looked towards Anarei after getting his expression under control again. "I've had to ride fast quite often, but I haven't done it in a while... it feels good, I guess?"

Her smile deepened, and she nudged her horse, bringing them closer. "Wind through your hair - clears the head, doesn't it? And the further we travel, the cooler it gets." The proximity to her homeland had improved her temper. "We're almost there."

Once again, Lear tried to dig deep, tried to remember what snow was like, how cold the wind could get. He'd tried the first time he found out his company hailed from the icy north, and as he had failed then, he failed now.

"Virkove, huh?" He eased the tension on the reins as his pace matched with Anarei's. His steed was another stallion - grey with faint spots of muted brown speckled over his rump. Lear patted him twice on the neck, and the horse nickered in response.

It would appear that Lochi's uncle kept a ranch of even-tempered horses; upon mentioning the druid's name, the old man had given them a generous discount, and he had picked this horse out from the rest for being the only horse that didn't glare at him in distaste - at first. By now, he seemed agreeable enough.

"Virkove... I don't know much about that town." Lear returned his attention to the topic at hand. "It's on the west island from Mount Arreat, yes? Towards the south? I only know it's one of the warmer, pleasanter places around that ring of volcanoes."

Anarei responded offhandedly enough, but the subtle pride in her voice did not go unnoticed. "Warmer and pleasanter, yes. We built it after the worldstone was destroyed - well." She bit her lip; there was a trace of bitterness to her tone, now. "Grand-da and his generation of fine gentlemen did, anyway. Harrogath's in ruins now - so's Sescheron. They couldn't withstand the destruction, and if those fortresses couldn't -" She shook her head. "Virkove is nice."

_Harrogath. Where mother died. _Freeing his good hand from the reins, he pulled his scarf tighter, grateful for the comfort and warmth it offered. _Surely she wanted to keep me warm, then, when she held me for the last time. _

The thought tasted more sweet than bitter, and he allowed a smile to curl his lips. "Tell me about it. What makes it nice?"

His smile was mirrored in Anarei's own as her hazel eyes met his. "It's not a fortress - not built like all the old ancient fortresses, anyway. Not like Bastion's keep. Virkove is set on a mountain, and up the winding pathways, you have houses and lodgings, and shops spanning the entire length of the marketplace. Grand-da built the training ground on one of the few flat pieces of land we had, and it's right up at the side of the hill. If you end up sparring all the way to the edge, you can see all the way southwards to Entsteig." She recounted fondly, her eyes softening as she turned away. "I'll show you."

_Ah, Entsteig._

_That_ was a city with which Lear was familiar. It was where one of hunters' bases was situated, and he'd had to escort someone there before - a turncoat, who got involved with some secret dealings with a few dark mages, and caught the attention of the higher-ups. The hunters had claimed that he was one of their own, and wanted him alive, presumably for the sake of their own pride - it would be insulting, he imagined, for one of _them _to be executed by one of _his _order.

He didn't have a chance to do very much sightseeing.

"That'd be good." He tried to catch Anarei's eye again; now that they had reached an open area, the horses had trotted on a little faster, and the girl's cheeks were pink from the wind. Lear wished again that he could get her home sooner, but not only for his own selfish reasons - she seemed eager to be home, and he liked her better when she was happy.

The ringlets upon her head bounced as she turned towards him again; she tossed them back quickly. She was happy, certainly, but now he saw the tinge of solemnity on her face, even in the way she crooked a slight, somewhat resigned smile. "Will you stay long enough to see all that, or are you planning on dumping me on my doorstep and making a run for it?"

Lear neither had an answer for it, nor did he want to answer it honestly, so he smiled ironically and asked a question of his own: "To where can I run, Anarei?"

She responded without hesitation. "Away." Her eyelids drooped, and her smile turned sour. "Away from me. I'm sure I've irritated you enough."

"You think so badly of me," Lear retorted, feeling his smile grow weaker. "You think _I _think that badly of _you_?" He sighed and turned from Anarei, watching the way ahead as they approach the edge of the clearing. He swallowed, took a moment to check his words in his head before saying them aloud, "While I may be inadequate in showing my appreciation, I'm not ungrateful. We've had... a lot of arguments along the way, but we've had good times, too."

She'd tugged the reins of her horse to sidestep a mound of boulders, clicking her tongue gently. Once safe, her eyes found his again, dark with bitter amusement. "You mean the good times that were only good because we were civil for once." Despite the nature of her words, her smile softened. "I _am _sorry, though. For all the arguments, and all the bad times."

A heartfelt smile found its way to Lear's lips. "And for the time you were so eager to cut me open?"

She pursed her lips - he thought she looked genuinely apologetic and just a little bit ashamed of herself. "You were supposed to be unconscious."

"You _also _sounded _very_ eager when you had me pinned down on the forest floor." He couldn't fight the chuckle that escaped him. "I'm not a barbarian; there was no need to pin me down between all _three _of you."

"You almost threw Strahan off when we tried to restrain you." Anarei made a face - her nose wrinkled, and he felt the strange urge to poke at the lines. Still, she retained an adequately sheepish expression afterwards. "Sorry I threatened you, too, when you woke up."

_I got you back for that, anyway. _Lear considered the words, and decided that the experience might yet be too raw for her to laugh about it. He shook his head instead. "It's alright. I'm sorry for being a difficult patient."

The chuckle that escaped her was low and wry. "Are we saying goodbye already? Apologise for everything we've done to hurt one another, so we part on good terms?"

He tried to look surprised at that. "No! No... you still have to show me, remember?" He offered her a little grin. "The paths, the shops, the training grounds?"

"The paths, the shops, and the training grounds, yes," Anarei repeated. Despite the smile that curled her lips, she did not look in the least bit convinced. Still, she humoured him, and he was grateful to avoid further questioning. "And maybe we can learn to be friends in a less turbulent environment."

_She doesn't think we're friends, neither. _Lear mused, as he gave her an affirmative hum. _What _are_ we to each other, even after everything we've been through together? _

He couldn't answer that, but Lear didn't think it mattered very much at this point, anyway.

* * *

"It _has _to be something delicate, right? An antique vase?"

"If a vase was shaped like _this_, _nothing_ would stop it from breaking!"

"So it's a painting, then? A scroll?"

"You've already asked if it's some scroll of holy scripture, and I said no - not a scroll."

"It's just so bloody big, is all. Is it a parasol?"

"Yeah... but it's so delicate, I have to keep it in this padded case... I wouldn't use it even if it's raining!"

"I'm right? It's a parasol?"

"Eh heh heh! No."

"Oh _come on_! Can't be a giant bloody calligraphy brush, can it?"

"We have those for the huge scrolls they hang on the bigger archways... I always wonder how they do it without stepping over the ink and leaving footprints all over the place -"

"So is that a yes or is that a no? Probably not - not unless you're planning on _painting _a prayer over whatever we find down here..."

"Eh... no. You know, I have an idea for you - perhaps it's a relic?"

"What _kind _of relic, though - some ancient fan of power you're transporting across the realms as a duty to your gods, perhaps?"

"Uh, a relic in our faith is usually a part of a holy person's remains. Besides, we don't need fans in Ivgorod."

"So you've got a corpse in there?"

"Ha, maybe a part of a corpse, eh? An arm? A leg?"

Not for the first time since they'd started the upward trek into the highlands, Strahan pinched at the bridge of his nose and wished he were alone. "If either of you keep talking, I'll _make _sure there's an arm, a leg, and maybe a head in that case before we get back to town."

Heulan's huge grin disappeared in an instant. His dark, wide eyes stared intently at Strahan, and he simply gawked like that for a good few seconds before asking, in a much meeker, smaller voice, "What about the rest of the body?"

"Use your imagination."

The monk's eyes widened even further for a moment, then he turned away, and when Strahan stole a glance at him, he appeared to be deep in thought, his eyes upturned and his expression wistful. He left the boy to his own devices.

"Thank goodness." Kormac grunted as Lyndon lapsed into silence, too, then cracked his neck sharply. "I don't think you ever _did_ tell us _why_ you want to hunt down the coven. What do you want from them?"

_Finally. A topic of conversation that doesn't revolve around the contents of that fruity case._ Strahan pursed his lips. _Not that this one is any better._

"I've told you - I have unfinished business with one of the coven's officers. He's a servant of Rathma, or rather, he serves Rathma the best way he knows how." A gust of chilly wind swept across the vast grounds, rustling leaves and untended grass. "Essentially, that means he serves himself best. He's marked me for slaughter, it seems, and I want to end that before he gets to it."

_Before any more of my family gets hurt. Karalir has to die._ The idea of it repulsed him - he knew it would repulse his mother. _The gods rest your soul, mother. I'm sorry, but I have to do this._

He wondered if it would have broken her heart - her sons at war.

Kormac sniffled, his nose wrinkling as if he'd caught a foul stench. "And what makes _you_ a mark?" He snorted, and said casually, though not without an edge of menace. "Are you a traitor of some sort, or have you done something against the law? I'll have you know, I don't work with traitors or criminals."

He heard Lyndon let out a snort, and bit back a slight smile, hoping it was enough to curb his own rising distaste. "Your laws are not mine, templar. I am not a priest of Rathma, nor do I follow their teachings. I think that means neither you nor him cannot judge me." He paused, flexing his fingers. "The person I seek is a pretty sorry excuse for a representative of Rathma, at any rate. He hurt innocents during the sacking of Tristram, one of them being my sister. Is it so wrong to exact revenge, when it is so necessary? He'll hurt others, and he'll want my head - or my heart in his hands."

Behind them, Heulan made a strangled sort of noise, but Kormac cut off any comment from him with a deep-throated laugh. "What a cold-hearted healer we have here." He narrowed his eyes, and they seemed to grow sharper as he smirked approvingly. "I like that - a man guided by his morals and beliefs, not by petty, cumbersome sentiments."

"Wait, wait!" Heulan almost shoved past the templar in his haste to get his word in. With those deep, soft eyes, he appealed to Strahan. "Revenge never solves anything! He'll hurt others, and he wants to hurt you... so you want to stop him, I understand; but you want to hurt him in return?" He shook his head anxiously. "That's not the way. You won't feel any better if you do that."

_Oh, you have no idea._ Strahan took a moment to regard the monk, then let out a quiet sigh, one he knew to be rank with resignation. He had about as much desire to end Karalir - who was, all things considered, his own blood - as he wanted a toothache. Once again, he apologised in his head, begged his mother for her forgiveness, and steeled himself with resolve.

It wasn't easy, what with the monk and his limpid, puppy-like eyes. Strahan bit down an urge to shove him aside - or to kick him.

"You're a holy man, Heulan." He shifted his pack where it hung, deliberately slow in his speech. "I'll get this straight though - I would _not _be here if he hadn't chosen to make the first move. He drew my blade for me when he marked me himself. This _will _happen, either way, and I'm not about to let him decide when."

"So taking his life is your only option?" Heulan seemed very much hurt and distressed by his words, but his own tone was no less forward. "You can't... I don't know, lock him up somewhere, keep him from hurting others?" He frowned, lowering his voice as it takes on a more solemn quality. "You may not be of the faith of Rathma, but it's your heritage by blood, is it not? Doesn't that make him your kinsman - your brother?"

Strahan narrowed his eyes. "Yes. Exactly that - he's my brother." He wondered if the impatience in him had begun to show; Lyndon appeared to have noted such - the scoundrel's gaze suggested caution, even as he followed after them, light-footed and quiet as a shadow. "Look - I don't like this any more than you do. I heal by profession, I save lives. Taking one is as much against my vows as it is my personal dogma. You speak of imprisonment, but I'm not sure I want to take the risk of him escaping. He's powerful - he's well-learned in those arts, and he's got the coven on his side now. Most of us have seen what they're capable of. Idealism isn't going to solve anything in this case." He frowned. "And I don't need your approval, neither."

_Mother stayed with father for the sake of idealism - so her boys would have both their parents. Look what that got her - a dead, traitorous husband and a self-righteous son raised away from her under the banner of Rathma. _Strahan allowed himself a cynical chuckle - inwardly, at least. _And me. At least one of us took after her._

The other was all their father.

The young monk pursed his lips and frowned deeply, his eyes still locked upon Strahan - he was surprised to see neither accusation nor condemnation in them; rather, they simply looked troubled - sad, almost sympathetic.

His voice was small when he spoke again. "There's no other way?"

For his part, Strahan was genuine - his only regret was that the curtness in his tone likely did not convey it. "I wish there were."

Kormac let out his bark of a laugh again, and clapped him hard on the back. "That's the way." He seemed entirely unperturbed by the conversation he'd just observed. "Take a stand, and do whatever it takes to achieve what's righteous and just. Never let anything hold you back, boy." He pulled away from Strahan, and turned towards Heulan. "Those who aren't for the light are against it. We're better off without evildoers in this realm, whether they be human, spirit or beast."

Heulan let out the soft strangled moan again, and Strahan fancied that it almost sounded like a precursor for a bout of tears; but the monk held his tongue, and let the templar bask in his own smugness.

_For what it's worth, Heulan, I think I'd prefer your childlike idealism to Kormac's self-certain bravado. _He fingered the ruby pommel of the blade he kept by his side. A Naveau blade - one commissioned and granted to him by the previous patriarch of the family. _Qual-Kekh, they called him. To Rei, he was just grand-da. And to me?_

He mused the very real possibility of sinking the blade into Karalir's chest. _How fitting. To end my blood family with a gift from the family that took me in._

Strahan doubted the old man wanted his brother's blood on his hands, neither. The thought made him irritable, and so he returned his attention to his companions. "We're likely going to be facing a force in there. I doubt they'd be foolish enough to camp out in the manor itself, so some delicate searching might be required. What else have you all heard about this place?"

He was not at all surprised to hear Lyndon respond. The scoundrel stepped up, mild as ever. "It's mostly in ruins now. The walls and part of the roof have collapsed, and it's more a home to wild beasts than anything, though I hear homeless beggars roost there from time to time." He hitched his crossbow up over his shoulder, and Heulan perked up then - Strahan didn't spare too much thought for it; the monk perked up at rather odd things, sometimes. "Usually, no one sees them again. Probably the bears and beasts, though."

"Easy picking for the cultists, too, if they happened to be in need of fresh, live sacrifices." Kormac interjected. "The cultists are probably having a gay old time, if the cells and torture chambers really _are_ down there. Putting them to good use."

He sounded far too amused by the prospect for Strahan to believe he felt at all bad about it.

Lyndon shrugged a shoulder. "Anyway. You're right in that we'd have to do some poking about to find said torture chambers. It's not going to be as easy as walking down a flight of stairs, I'll tell you that."

"Speaking from experience, Lyndon?" Strahan arched an eyebrow.

The scoundrel only smiled at him.

"Well, there are stairs, now." Heulan remarked quietly at the moss-covered, weathered stone slabs before him, cut into the slopes and leading uphill. His usual energy and enthusiasm were absent from his voice even as his eyes, once again keen, followed the steps. "Stone fences, too. What's this?"

"Let's find out, shall we?" Kormac reached for the fauchard strapped to his back, and waved it once in the air solidly before tightening his grip over the polearm. "I recognise the noise - sounds like those mindless goatmen. I'd killed a good few down at the fields."

Strahan slanted his gaze aside towards the templar. _Oh, Kormac, you just keep making it harder and harder for me to like you._

Instead of saying _that_, however, he simply moved forward to take the first step, and remarked, "They used to be men. Have a care no one takes _you _into their keeping, and turns you into an abomination that's neither animal nor man."

Heulan's face fell again. "May the gods have mercy on their souls, and pass righteous judgement on those who had done such deeds to them."

_That would be my people, of course. _He corrected himself. _My father's people._

Strahan let out a sigh. "Let's just go."

* * *

**Authors' Notes: **

**Em: **Whoo! Another chapter at the ready, and we're getting close, close, closer to the juicy unveiling of what-lies-beneath-Leoric's-manor! But y'all probably know that already. Testosterone Brigade, ASSEMBLE!

**Oph: **We certainly are eager to get some canon out of the way - not without our own twists and turns applied to it, of course. We hope you've enjoyed the ride, too! Thanks for dropping us a review for the last chapter, **Heka **and **General Peaches**, and thanks to all those who've favourited and followed this story. We very much appreciate it, it makes us all pumped to keep writing!

**Em: **And keep writing we did! Brain juice makes us very happy, so if you're reading and enjoying and want to know more, (we're not above giving teasers and hints), please do drop us a review! We'd also like to get this out of the way: WE DO NOT OWN DIABLO III, Blizzard does.

**Oph: **We're also not above giving out doodle-requests... well, I'm not, anyway. So if you want to see a certain scene, or a certain character, even of a certain character doing certain silly things, let me know! Oh, and more name-puns: Heulan is from another mineral, and Serac is a double-pun. Google it. Let me know if you've found out!

**Em: **Those of you reading this fic as well as our individual DII fics - you have been warned. There be spoilers now, and there be spoilers ahead. Personally, I think they won't do much to hamper your reading enjoyment either way. On with the reading, I say - and thanks for all the love! Until next time, we're signing off!


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